The Morning After I Killed Myself

The morning after I killed myself,

my kin would find me free—for the first time in forever,

from the weight of expectations

and the burden of liabilities.

My parents would weep a little, and then some more,

and when there are no more tears left to cry,

 they'll put week-old clothes out to dry.

The morning after I killed myself,

my bed would remain the same.

The poetry that I never completed

would now be cherished in everyone’s frame.

They would exaggerate about how great I was,

how tragic it is for my parents to go through this loss.

The morning after I killed myself,

my water bottle would be left untouched,

to not erase my traces off it,

just in case I decide to return.

My wardrobe would be made properly,

because my mom knows I’m messy, 

and maybe she’ll love me now, finally.

The morning after I killed myself,

my whiteboard will remain,

ink splashed all over—

with plans never made.

I lingered in my room, a little longer,

Hoping for relief to finally get stronger.

The morning after I killed myself,

The sticky notes on my books–

Not so sticky anymore, 

they carry the words that never left me,

In my heart, and in my home.

And if only they see it,

Maybe they’ll understand–

why I felt so alone.

The morning after I killed myself,

I realized I hadn’t left.

I was there, stitched into their grief,

bound by the love I didn’t think I deserved.

I thought I was free, but I wasn’t—

not from them, not from myself.

The morning after I killed myself,

I saw my parents weep,

not for the daughter they lost

but for the daughter they didn’t see.

I watched them piece together my absence,

too late to mend what was broken in me.

The morning after I killed myself,

I waited for peace to come,

but found only the weight of what could have been.

If only I had stayed to see the sunrise,

to fight through the ache and the heaviness,

perhaps the morning after wouldn’t exist.