The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.
I made myself waffles with the waffle iron I convinced my mother to buy when I was
twelve, with a side of fruit I bought at a road side produce stand.
I sat at the dining room table
drinking a fresh cup of coffee
and sketching the yellow sunflowers in the ceramic pots outside my window.
The morning after I killed myself, I went for a run.
The soles of my shoes stomped against the the asphalt
as I sucked in the salty air from the near by ocean.
When I reached the sea I stopped.
With my feet in the sand,
I take in the aroma,
closing my eyes and fading with the tide.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love.
Not with the person, but their hands.
My mothers hands,
cupped together while laying in bed trying to sleep but falling short of a dream.
The hands of my brother,
holding his phone close, scrolling through my Instagram feed, trying to pull me back out.
With my friends hands,
as he sat on his porch rolling a joint,
once believing in God now sitting in bed trying desperately to believe
I still exist.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to school.
I sat watching as my teachers received the news of my death
thinking how they will tell my fellow peers.
I cleaned out my locker and returned my text books to the library.
I gave my pencil to the forgetful kid in class.
Who isn't that good in school but, always seemed to make me laugh.
I listened to the students in the hall whispering about my death.
Paying their respects the only way they know how:
The morning after I killed myself, I drove to Sebastian.
I watched the early morning surfers while sitting on top of my bus,
to lazy to join them.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the morgue to try and talk some sense into her.
I told her about the waffles,
and the beach,
and her friends.
I told her about the pencil
and the sunsets,
and the surfers.
The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself,
but couldn’t finish what I started.