the day i woke up from my suicide
it was cold, yet hot,
a fever.
i am surprised,
as though I didn't fill myself with poison
just the night before.
my arm is taped down,
attached to an iv,
four pouches of medication seep into my veins
it burns,
yet any tears i have left have been taken by my father,
crying in the seat beside my hospital bed,
next to my mother, a stoic statue.
how rare to see your father cry,
how jarring.
to see the grown man who has been a fortress all your life,
break down like a child
the violence of the sobs,
the sharpness of the gasp as he realizes my eyes are open,
as though he were drawing his very first breath.
this is not how i wanted this to go.
and to see your mother,
silent and still,
for once, she had no words to say.
her pain would come,
but as the world told her,
she needed to be strong.
the plan was simple,
sleeping pills before bed,
the perfect excuse to lay limp.
eyes shut,
it'd be over within a few hours,
a smile rests on my face when i realize, this funeral bill would be cheaper than the countless medical ones.
a hug to my parents,
who i never hug.
a goodbye.
i play my favorite song on repeat
and close my eyes,
waiting for what comes next.
but as i sit up in this bed,
gauze shielding the barcodes carved into my arms,
i see i've simply made things
so.
much.
harder.
their trust would be the last to come,
that's for certain.
but first would be sleepless nights of my parents arguing about where they went wrong,
loud whispers as though our walls were not thin.
debates,
not knowing who to blame.
mimicry of their actions,
going through a range of motions,
they are no longer whole.
i wish i could say this changed my perspective on life,
my taste of death inspired a new life,
but it didn't.
they took out the poison but left my brain,
my body's one true toxin.
Copyright ©
Oliver Chu
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