Sep 22

Morning after I killed myself


The morning after I killed myself,
I woke up.
I crept outside for an early cigarette.
I made myself breakfast.
I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese sandwich.
I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass.
I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter.
I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love.
Not with the girl down the street or the middle school principal.
Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag.
I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each items from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat.

I fell in love with my father downstairs as he placed my note on his table and keep on reading it again n again.
With my brother who once believed in miracle but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way his tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat.
I saw the empty space in his eyes when he reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place.
I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old kid and examined how they were already fading.
I picked a few flowers and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death.
I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.
The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up.
Each tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into it.
I told him about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and his parents.
I told him about the sunsets and the dog.
The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

I should have thought of all this before killing myself…

A semicolon is used when an author could’ve chosen to end their sentence, but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life. Life is precious think before putting a full-stop to it.

By: Meggie Royer.
Orignal @

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1 comment

  1. Hi kate
    Thanks for letting me know
    It was sent to me by my friend
    And I liked it instantly and publish with few lines of my thoughts
    Although as I know the actual writer… I have added the name…

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