Tag Archives: suicide

I was her for days

my mother left on a Tuesday

morning

tea pot screaming on the stove

the wallpaper

fifty year old paisley

peeled like potatoes in her honor

 

I touched my fingers to hers

so cold, so cold

a fixture of

sky blue highways

roadmaps at her temples

Egypt behind her knees

 

in her apartment

shelves sat thick with memory

I was elbows bent

on her favorite chair

in the parlor

everything was her, spiced

everything was floral

 

I was her for days

fleece robe, Billie on vinyl

I tore circles in the green shag rug

called the neighbor darling

drank manhattans before noon

rearranged the roses

held a 38 special to my curls

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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she wasn’t so unlike the others

 

the girl came to be

as an unnoticed list of

what-evers,

of who cares,

in a two-toned,

dried up land:

 

brown hair, small wave

pear shaped, round faced

stale laugh,

stoic collarbone

 

helplessly female.

 

in blacks and navies,

maybe reds when she’d

try to turn faces,

she climbed through

most years with a

white flag on her head.

 

falling into beds was

easy

for the girl

no one

wanted anyway,

just to say she did,

just to say she

wasn’t so unlike

the others

bathed in gold.

 

so she ended

how she’d began,

closing her eyes,

lying back in that

porcelain throne,

pinning on the badge of it figures

to a chorus of

oh well,

so what.

 

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The Visitor

 

The girl walked into death like walking into a coffee shop; right into that thick inviting aroma that rocks one to sleep whether you choose to drink it in or not. There was only one door, easier than she’d expected, no riddles, no guards. She still had on the same clothes she’d left in. It wasn’t dark, but it wasn’t light either, like sun sneaking in through cuts in cool stone. She spread her arms and closed her eyes and ran fingertips along the walls’ unevenness like Braille, trying hard to decipher a dream. Her life had been a single oval room, no corners to hide from the burning pass of time. She’d prayed for this all along, this lengthening hallway of the afterlife, this final sigh of relief.

Minutes passed – Heaven’s hour – and the hallway seemed to sway and stretch, reaching away from her as she navigated its barrenness. The walls weren’t changing; she felt no inviting breeze from a nearby ending. Death did nothing to stop her panic, the quickening of her unbeating heart. She thought she’d be just a cavity now. Nothingness. The undulating residue of stardust. Something inside her was stirring. “Not now,” it whispered from her throat.

She woke in the same old chair at their same old dining room table. The pieces of paper she’d scribbled on and balled up and thrown onto the floor, were now smoothed and neatly stacked in front of her, every single one blank, unused. Her cheeks were dry and when the movement came back to her fingers she found they were no longer wrapped around her husband’s pistol. Just then a breeze walked in from an open window. When she looked up her son sat just across from her, cross-legged and elbows on his tiny knees. Outside a car pulled into the driveway.

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