One Day After My Suicide
The day after my suicide,
I fell in love with the woman
whose photograph I keep on
my nightstand.
The day after my suicide,
I forgave my father
for everything he was
and everything he
failed to be.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my mother beyond
her addictions and for the
broken little girl I was always
too angry to picture her
of being.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my dog and I appreciated
the way she ran through the yard
so freely.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my brother and we
were throwing rocks down
by the creek.
The day after my suicide,
I saw my sister and she
was teaching me how to
fix the chain on my
bicycle.
The day after my suicide,
I pictured Van Gogh laying
in that field of sunflowers with
his guts spilling out and I wondered
if in that moment he viewed himself
as artistic or driven.
The day after my suicide,
I realized that none of that
really mattered.
Because the day after my suicide,
I saw myself for the very first time.
And I loved myself unconditionally.
And I wished. Oh, how I wished
that I could have waited. Just one
more day.
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