I sometimes wonder if I could kill myself with a peach pit.

They’re sharp at the top, and rough; they can scratch skin if you use enough pressure. Plus, they’re crazy durable, impossible to crack open. And they’ve got those ridges, so they’re serrated, like dull dinner knives.

People would think that’s pretty funny, a kid committing suicide with a peach pit. They’d think it was some intentionally artistic display of irony, depicting the accessibility and adolescence of death. Poets would go nuts over that stuff.

I think it would require too much effort, though, using a peach pit. I’d have to be strong enough to sufficiently jam it into my carotid artery, which would likely call for about six weeks of weight training in advance, an activity in which I am highly disinterested. Not to mention the fact that there’s no guarantee it would work. The last thing I want to do is wind up in the ER with a piece of peach pit stuck in my neck, some bug-eyed resident staring at me, pondering the mystifyingly immense idiocy that is a teenager.

I also don’t think my mom, who is not a poet but a half nurse, half spaghetti-making connoisseur, would fashion any dramatic humor from the situation. Frankly, I don’t think she’d even notice that I used a peach pit, what with all the crying she’d be doing. My stepdad would appreciate it, though - the peach pit. He’d smirk and chuckle, “Of all the ways to off yourself, they used a peach pit. A peach pit! I swear to God, this kid was so weird.”

My stepdad doesn’t really understand me. He says he just can’t wrap his head around the idea of not being a female or a male, that if you’re not one or the other, then what in world are you? I’ve tried explaining to him the difference between gender non-binary and amorphous blob, but he just can’t seem to grasp it. We get along all right, though. Sarcasm can build plenty of bridges.

I will admit, there’s a chance that people might get pretty depressed - about the peach pit, not the termination of my existence. I should start eating plums, or apricots even, to see which stone fruit is best. Not mangoes, though, that’s just plain pretentious. I could look into cherry pits, but those make such a mess. I don’t want my mom to have to deal with any additional inconvenient red stains; her marinara sauce does quite enough. I’d just hate to leave everyone so disappointed.