The Night After I Killed Myself

Dear Me,

The night after I killed myself,

dreams woke me up and I found

myself across the country in my mother’s

bedroom where she was sound asleep,

nestled in sea foam sheets,

and our family cat, once all black

but now with starry night, pepper fur,

was the only one who saw me

from where she was curled up

at her feet, yellow eyes spotlighting

me in the dark.

⠀

When sleeping, my mother looked

very different, all her worried furrows

smoothed out by the sandman’s thumb.

Her laugh lines were welcome newcomers

as she had only just been learning

how to laugh again after a hard life.

⠀

Suddenly, her cocker spaniel

rocketed in the room, based on pure

instinct and empathy. Tail tucked between his

legs, he howled a sound I had never

heard him make before, transfixed

on me hovering above her.

It sounded like a woman wailing.

⠀

Gasping, my mother awoke, our

eyes meeting, and then the force

of her guttural scream propelled me.

I rose.

The night after I killed myself,

time lost all meaning and the same

moment I was with my mother,

I was sent back years ago to the hospital

room that my Grammy was in

which I never got to visit.

Before she took her last breath,

she mumbled my name and was gone,

whisked from sight, leaving nothing

but a bed with tangled sheets and IV behind.

⠀

When I blinked, I was above the roof

of her old house, and instead of her waiting there

I found nothing but yellow warblers

and frantic squirrels watching me

and a Blue sedan parked in the driveway.

⠀

Someone else lived there now,

but I could hear our laughter echoing

out from the house from our last video call,

a swan song symphony played just for me,

so beautiful because I could hear her voice again

after being starved of it for so long.

When she spoke, she said she was incredibly

proud of me and would always be, and that she

would be here for me as long as she could.

I listened to what I said. I had forgotten.

I listened and listened as it played us talking

on repeat, her spoon hitting her cup,

searching for more tea and words

like a broken tape recorder.

⠀

Reunion after death seemed to be a cruel myth,

Remembrance was almost as beautiful in its place.

The night after I killed myself,

I took the coins they placed over my eyes

and used them as bus fare to go to my childhood home.

When I tried to place the money in,

a separate bus ran intangibly through the first,

sweeping me up into the sky in a dizzying ride.

If I wanted, I could reach out my hand

and touch the wings of a bird or sample the clouds.

The little things, like cool mist on my

face and tongue had never

before been so refreshing.

⠀

We passed each of our homes since

the shelter as if they were only minutes

apart until we landed on the one.

This house was where I had finally been able to be a child.

This one had a grove of magnolia trees that

bore pine cones like fruit and one of our

childhood dogs loved to carry them

around in his mouth like a security blanket.

⠀

There was also an out of place bamboo forest

that my mother always fretted would overtake

us if not kept in check so my brother

and I would cut them down and use the

stalks and constantly appearing baby shoots.

Then we’d play pretend, and that’s where

I learned to weave baskets, make flutes, and build

makeshift shelters that kept out the rain

and housed our imaginations.

We’d just sit there and listen to the forest breathe

around us, while rain made xylophones

out of the hollow bamboo as we smiled

so hard my cheeks hurt still as if it just happened again.

The night after I killed myself,

I laid on a cliff by the sea, tasted the ocean spray

and rain on my childishly stuck out tongue,

I splashed in puddles and spun around until I was dizzy,

and fell back laughing, until the sound faded.

⠀

In the silence I was left staring up at

the swollen storm clouds, letting their deluge

baptize me. I had fallen in love with my mother

and my brother, and the way that my Grandmother

had forever shaped me. I had fallen out of

and in love with the pain and joys of life again,

but it was already too late.

And nothing could take back what I had done.

Rest in Power,

Yourself

___________________________________

Thank you for reading. I wrote a single line of this poem every time I had a suicidal thought. I wrote this to remind myself to not kill myself.

RESOURCE

If you are ever thinking of harming yourself please dial 9-8-8. Similar to when you call 911 for an emergency, please call or text 988 if you're experiencing a mental health emergency.

____________________________________________________

COGNITIVE DISSONANCE:

If you're interested in checking out my debut chapbook regarding my experience with an unhealthy relationship you can check out this wonderful review here:

and can order a physical copy and/or PDF using the link below:

https://forms.gle/D3hcdQ6jdh67GuvL7

Light and Love!