i turned 24

i ate sausage gravy and biscuits for the first time (fantastic, by the way)

i was reunited with my dog after our first vacation away

i got a second-round interview type thing

i was given a one-off job on friday that will be really, really awesome

i put a ton of lotion on my body because i have neglected to buy sunscreen but then on the ride back from maine i bought sunscreen so i should be good in a little bit but until then, shoulder pain

i drove 5 hrs and 50 min from portland maine to randolph new jersey.

& lastly i did this: 

good night

sleepy eyes sleepy ears

soaked by thin streams

drunken gingerly, overflowing

into heavy lids heavy flesh

intonations dark and syrupy

slowly, slowly warmed hearts beat slowly

warmed breath leaves slowly

rumbles in sleepy heads

saturated air

i can’t actually art this is a sham.

(Datum is the singular of data.)

I planned to write this weeks ago.

I still really don’t have that much to say, but that I started writing and I’m going to keep writing until I can’t write it anymore, and then move on to the next thing I want to write, and hopefully self-loathing and fear aren’t going to appear for a while again soon (although if some things don’t change, I foresee those two squatting in my head-house in the near future, but that’s pessimistic and pessimism is what those two eat.)

Also, soon I will have more head space for things I actually want to think about, so that’s nice.

Plus, I’ll be able to purchase the books I want to read very soon.

And I really, really want to read again.

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up. I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched 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 reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother. The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach. The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

By Meggie Royer