Jan 2018
The morning after I killed myself,
I woke up.
I made myself breakfast in bed.
I salted and peppered my eggs and used my toast to make a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich.
I squeezed a grapefruit into a glass, and scraped the ashes from the frying pan and wiped the butter off the counter while I sipped.
I washed my dishes and put them away.
The morning after I killed myself,
I fell in love.
Not with the pretty girl next door or the middle school's hot vice principal.
Not with that cute jogger or the shy grocer who always left the milk out of the bag.
I fell in love with my mother, and the way she sat on my bed holding my drawing of the rose girl and butterfly until it grew damp from sweat and tears.
I fell in love with the way Dad took my arrows to the river and went bow fishing just so he could **** something.
With my siblings, who would each go to school and wrestle with the reality of my indefinite absence.
The morning after I killed myself,
I walked my dog.
I watched the way her tail wagged when a bird flew by, or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat.
I saw the empty space in her eyes when she turned around with a stick for me to throw, but saw nothing but empty air where I ought to be.
I stood by as a stranger scratched her behind her ears and she melted under their touch like she once had for mine.
The morning after I killed myself,
I went to the spot at the park where 2 year old me had waddled into the wet cement, and noted how the footprints had begun to wear away.
I went home and picked a few roses and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman across the street through her window as she read the news of my passing.
I saw her husband tap the ashes off the end of his cigarette and bring her her daily medicines.
The morning after I killed myself,
I watched the sun rise, and thought what my 2 friends might be thinking then.
The evening after I killed myself,
After spending the day watching the world keep turning without me,
I went back to my body at the morgue and tried to talk some sense into the lifeless husk.
I told him about his dog, and the dragon headstone grandpa carved for him, he remembered how much I loved dragons.
I told him about Dad at the river, and how his little brother was starting drugs to numb the pain.
I told him about the sunset she was watching without him, and his friends playing one-sided card games, and reminded him of their secret cabin in the woods.
The day after I killed myself,
I tried to un-**** myself,
but
I couldn't
finish
what I started.
I woke up.
I made myself breakfast in bed.
I salted and peppered my eggs and used my toast to make a bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwich.
I squeezed a grapefruit into a glass, and scraped the ashes from the frying pan and wiped the butter off the counter while I sipped.
I washed my dishes and put them away.
The morning after I killed myself,
I fell in love.
Not with the pretty girl next door or the middle school's hot vice principal.
Not with that cute jogger or the shy grocer who always left the milk out of the bag.
I fell in love with my mother, and the way she sat on my bed holding my drawing of the rose girl and butterfly until it grew damp from sweat and tears.
I fell in love with the way Dad took my arrows to the river and went bow fishing just so he could **** something.
With my siblings, who would each go to school and wrestle with the reality of my indefinite absence.
The morning after I killed myself,
I walked my dog.
I watched the way her tail wagged when a bird flew by, or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat.
I saw the empty space in her eyes when she turned around with a stick for me to throw, but saw nothing but empty air where I ought to be.
I stood by as a stranger scratched her behind her ears and she melted under their touch like she once had for mine.
The morning after I killed myself,
I went to the spot at the park where 2 year old me had waddled into the wet cement, and noted how the footprints had begun to wear away.
I went home and picked a few roses and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman across the street through her window as she read the news of my passing.
I saw her husband tap the ashes off the end of his cigarette and bring her her daily medicines.
The morning after I killed myself,
I watched the sun rise, and thought what my 2 friends might be thinking then.
The evening after I killed myself,
After spending the day watching the world keep turning without me,
I went back to my body at the morgue and tried to talk some sense into the lifeless husk.
I told him about his dog, and the dragon headstone grandpa carved for him, he remembered how much I loved dragons.
I told him about Dad at the river, and how his little brother was starting drugs to numb the pain.
I told him about the sunset she was watching without him, and his friends playing one-sided card games, and reminded him of their secret cabin in the woods.
The day after I killed myself,
I tried to un-**** myself,
but
I couldn't
finish
what I started.
