the morning after
The morning after I tried to die was just like any other. My Grandmother called me from the kitchen, alarming me that I had slept-in too late. My face was puffy in my eyes, cheeks and lips. My body was fatter and more stocky. My color was all-well returned back to my head, with my nose a bright red. I had taken most of the pills in my prescription bottle, surprisingly nobody noticed the amount of them that were missing. Even though I was breathing, I have been dead for months.
The morning after I told her I was better off nowhere, in the thirty degrees heat, I left. I figured it made no matter where I found myself in the world anyways, for I was just a problem made of atoms.
The morning after he told me he loved me I took his blindness and handed it to Jesus, Jesus healed him like he did the others, and suddenly he was just a boy who had said three words he’d never mean.
The morning after the dog left, I saw his footprints embedded in the living room carpet like cement. I saw him moaning and crying at the door like the ghost he was, begging to come back.
The morning after I woke up, I wish I had not. But that's just life.
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