There was that one who drowned himself. There was the one who overdosed on pills. There was the one who was incautious with his needles and lax with his medication. There was the multiple stabbings, a near miss. There was the one who didn't do it but who said it would be my fault if he did. There was the one who slept with me on his resurrection, a broken beam, and rope buns and a second chance. Where is he now? We wonder, but we don't hold out much hope.
There are the corpses of them bobbing up through my dreams and banging against the underside of my eyelids. There was that time drunk on the motorcyle without a helmet, there was that other time, and the next and the next and I would hold my breath waiting for yet another turn for the worse, but I have never been into auto-asphyxiation.
Death and sex. I tip my hat to George Batailles. Death is so close, a thin pale membrane like a hymen. Once broken it could never be repaired.