Tag: Suicide

They Never Call Back

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from July, 2024.

I. aglu, n.

Why is it so hard to breathe?
Oxygen is
all around me.

Everyone else moves around
unburdened,
full-lunged.

Why is it so hard to move?
My fingers, toes
feel, twitch.

But I am stuck here, a bench
overlooking
a glacial valley.

II. nidorosity, n.

When I move, my joints
sound like gravel underfoot.

As I walk, no one
walks beside me.

Repugnant is what I am—
worthless.

III. mouffle, n.

Stare at myself in the mirror
when shadows don’t let me sleep.

Lights are brighter at 3am;
they show more detail.

It’s my nose, probably,
that deters people.

Explanations don’t bring any comfort,
nor do they help me sleep.

IV. âme damnée, n.

I hate being alone, but
I fear finding someone too.

What if someone deems me
worthy of time, attention,

and I lose myself completely?
It’s clear to me:

I would do anything they’d ask
to stay in their orbit.

V. glamorgan sausage, n.

I feel like an
imposter among humans—
better stay inside.

VI. funiliform, adj.

I pull the rope,
close the curtain
on my performance
in the role
of Normal Person.

VII. niddick, n.

My brain is
against me.
I feel it
when an earthquake
spans my neck
when I see
a loose cable.

VIII. wobbulator, n.

Clouds part;
it becomes clear
for an instant:

I need help.

IX. muck sweat, n.

My insurance company’s website
has an unintelligible interface.

Play Spot the Difference while
scrolling through dozens of names.

Dry my palms on my shirt,
dial a number into my phone.

Run my fingers through my hair
as rings echo through my skull.

X. clicktivism, n.

Mumble through a voicemail,
repeat my number at the end.

Breathe. Breathe. Find air.

Open YouTube, start my playlist
of dogs reuniting with their owners.

A golden retriever leaps into the arms of a soldier
standing in the threshold of his home.

Breathe. Breathe. Find air.

A woman explains how she sets up her room
for her online therapy sessions.

XI. dad joke, n.

Some 3am googling
says socializing 
can stabilize mental health.

As I collect carts
in the Costco parking lot,
I smile, wave at customers.

When I return them
to the entrance, I say hi to
my coworkers, ask about their day.

Haltingly, I attempt a joke
to build camaraderie.
They suddenly need to get back to work.

XII. cryptomnesia, n.

Google isn’t a doctor.
An algorithm isn’t a person.

I should talk to an actual human
with a degree.

I should see if there’s anyone
in my insurance’s network.

XIII. eeksie-peeksie, adj.

After several hours
figuring out someone to call,
it turns out
I had called them already and
they never called back.

I open Instagram, watch a capybara
balance an orange on their head.

XIV. mythoclastic, adj.

Another online therapy ad
interrupts the flow of my scrolling.
Maybe they call people back.
Maybe they acknowledge
the dregs at the bottom of the mug.

My shaky thumbs
google the name,
but the autocomplete
adds the word
‘controversy.’

XV. ceol, n.

Leave my phone
by my water glass
sitting in its own sweat.

Need to make dinner.
Humans need food
to fuel their organs.

Ask the robot
who’s always listening to me
to play Cavetown.

XVI. fascinate, v.

See the coiled belt
on top of my dresser.

There is no escape.
They will never call you back.

See the coiled cart strap
by door to the break room.

Time is a flat circle.
You will feel this way forever.

XVII. latter wit, n.

When I’m out of the fog,
I don’t understand
what felt so logical
before.

XVIII. scringe, v.

Stare at myself in the mirror
when the sun leans on the windows.

Every mistake, every fumble
stares back at me.

Anger wells in their eyes, comes out
as spit launched at my face.

Clench my fist, swing,
make them go away.

XIX. ryepeck, n.

Shards fall like hail
over the bathroom counter.

Several stand in pools of blood
on the back of my hand.

XX. cook, n.

There’s something satisfying
about the way the glass bites
the muscles in my hand
as I clean up the bathroom.

XXI. plum bird, n.

I can hear birds in the tree
outside my dining room window
as I bandage my hand.

Their whistle sounds celebratory.

XXII. mwah-mwah, v.

The sun presides over the parking lot
in a cloudless sky.
I gather carts in the corral by the gas station.
A woman holds a child’s hand as

she pushes her cart toward me.
She looks just like my mom.
She even does that annoying air-kiss thing as
she says goodbye to another mother putting her kid in a Subaru.

XXIII. teleguide, v.

Maybe I should call my mom?
She could have an idea
of how to help.

My phone feels heavy
as I scroll through my contacts.
I remember

the track she kept me to,
the lack of choices I had,
the clack of her nails on the counter.

XXIV. buko juice, n.

Put the phone down.
Take a drink.
Think over pros and cons.

XXV. ravalement, n.

I am a broken mirror
trying to reassemble itself
piece by piece.

But, there's no foundation,
no reference poster
for what I'm supposed to be.

What if I get my dimensions wrong?
What if I spread myself too thin?

XXVI. raggare, n.

My dad was never around.
He was always off at car shows,
parading his Roadster around.

He would be no help.
He probably barely remembers
my name.

XXVII. dinki mini, n.

All around me, people go in pairs:
an old couple pushes a cart to their van,
teenagers hold hands in the food court,
parents juggle toddlers and canvas bags.

XXVIII. gong show, n.

Stare at my left eye in one of
the few remaining mirror fragments.

Stare at the stained porcelain,
small red islands in a vast white sea.

My phone against my ear,
my moms's voicemail beeps.

XXIX. patronomatology, n.

We're family.
Sure, she changed her name
after the divorce,

but names are just words.
I'm still her kid. She raised me.
She has to call back.

XXX. sometimey, adj.

It's been two days.

She has posted on Facebook four times.
She wrote about seeing Twisters
with her boyfriend.

She hasn't called me back.

XXXI. poddy dodger, n.

You're on your own.
You've always known.

People say they care.
They tell you to reach out.

They will never call you back.
You don't deserve their help.

You deserve to be alone.
You deserve to hurt.

Through a Fog

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from September, 2021.

I. padfoot, n.

They sit cross-legged,
back against the fence,
head low,

next to a rock
the size of a football
painted in blue and green swirls.

They murmur between deep breaths,
place a dandelion by the rock,
walk back inside their mom's house.

II. mycophilia, n.

Their stepmom is in the kitchen
humming to herself,
slicing white mushrooms,
throwing them into a saucepan.

They walk along the wall opposite her,
a balance between quick and stealth,
in an attempt to avoid any opportunity
for her to ask how they’re feeling.

III. whangai, n.

Successfully back in their room
unnoticed, they sit on their bed,
open their laptop from school,
get greeted by a log-in screen with
a first name
they wish would die,
a last name from a woman
they wish would leave.

IV. good-sister, n.

“Hey Z,” Layla, their brother’s wife, says
as she enters their room.
Since their brother’s deployment,
Layla has come over each Sunday
after her morning shift at Applebee’s.
She flops on the bed,
releasing a wave of french-fry-scented air.

V. goodsire, n.

“Your grandpa told me
dinner should be ready in about an hour,”
Layla says as she digs through her apron.
“Should be enough time
for the next episode
of Wild Wild Country.”
She retrieves a joint and her lighter, 
as is tradition.

VI. micromania, n.

While the citizens of Antelope
describe how the Rajneeshees
overthrew their local government,
Z stares at their toes
shrinking in the foreground
of their laptop’s keyboard.
Maybe their whole body with shrivel,
finally take up less space.
What kind of life is it 
when your sister-in-law is the only one
who uses your name?

VII. mumblecore, n.

They lose the thread
when Layla goes on about
a movie she watched last week
they’ve never heard of.
Everything spirals back into place
as they realize the episode’s credits
are scrolling by.
Dinner must be almost ready.

VIII. humidex, n.

After establishing an alibi
for their bloodshot eyes,
they walk with Layla
into the dining room.
Sweat drips down their spine.
Their neck aches,
their breaths shallow.

IX. urbanscape, n.

Luckily, their stepmom doesn’t notice
Layla and Z enter the dining room,
too busy going on about
her trip to the glass museum downtown
with her friends and their kids
which Z wasn’t invited to.

X. boody, v.

Z experiences dinner
through a fog.

They eat silently,
can’t hear anyone.

XI. gribble, adj.

You can’t be that surprised. You’re not her real kid. She wanted to be with your mom. You were just part of the package. Maybe Nevaeh left your mom because she just wanted to get away from you. You’ve probably always stood in the way of your mom's happiness. You are just a burden. When people talk about pride, they aren’t talking about you. When people talk about liberation, they aren’t talking about you.

XII. necessarium, n.

Put on pajamas. Go to the bathroom. Brush your teeth. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. A bottle of melatonin. A bathtub and hair dryer. A razor with a loose blade. Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.

XIII. human, adj. and n.

While dreaming,
Z isn’t confined
to the body they were born in,
which locks them in a box
 people force on them.

They can exist
in a body
free of gender.

XIV. hens and chickens, n.

When Z wakes up, they feel it
wash over them in waves.
Dread of confinement
in a body that doesn’t fit.
Pressure to be someone else
by everyone around them.
Hunted by an idea
of who they’re supposed to be.

XV. yom kippur, n.

Not wanting to be a burden
to everyone around them, 
Z takes up less space.
They don’t eat.
They don’t speak.
Maybe this will make up for
how much they’ve worn out the people
who have had to put up with them.

XVI. spiritdom, n.

After school,
Z sits in their backyard
watching their dog’s ghost
chase squirrels
through their mom’s garden.

XVII. min-min, n.

Lights float somewhere
above the roof of their house.
Closer than a star.
Blurry and flat
like an out-of-focus comet.
They imagine
Herry chasing a bone
across the Milky Way.

XVIII. urbs, n.

Z thinks about graduation —
just a few months away now —
then moving to the city
for school, maybe, but mostly
to get away from this house.

In the city,
they can be their true self
without the shackles of their family,
knowing it is also
without the stars they can watch
Herry chase bones across.

XIX. hearty, adj., n., and adv.

Sometimes, Z isn’t actually sure
they’ll make it to graduation.
They drag an anchor
down every hallway
until exhaustion grips
their heart and brain and
nothing seems worth all the effort.

XX. boohai, n.

alone, engulfed
in the smoke from pickups trucks
without mufflers.

XXI. tziganologue, n.

What if
there is nowhere
you will be accepted
you for who you are?

Maybe
no one else will ever
call you your name.
You may be alone
forever.

XXII. paddling pool, n.

Z sits on the side of the cafeteria
with friends who forget
what their name is,
who say it changes too often
to deserve extra effort.

If high school is this
and the future is made of
people like them,
then why would it be
worth getting to.

XXIII. almondine, adj.

Z walks in
from the backyard,
past the living room
where their stepmom
sits on the couch
eating almonds.
She asks “Aaron”
if they want any,
clearly forgetting
their name, their allergy.
As usual.

XXIV. garden room, n.

From their room,
Z stares out the window
toward the backyard.
They wonder about the height,
how fast they would fall,
the force with which they’d land
on their stepmom’s tomato plants.

XXV. feastly, adj.

At dinner, they savor every
last bite.

Their mom,
home for dinner for the first time in weeks,
takes a large scoop of
the macaroni and cheese
she spent the evening making.

Z eats
until their stomach hurts.

XXVI. slow-bellied, adj.

A full stomach,
they take slow, deliberate steps
up the staircase.

Committed, still,
to the plan they made
completely.

XXVII. pacable, adj.

It used to be bearable,
when Herry was alive,
when he could comfort them
after a hard day.
But since he died,
each day
feels more torturous
than the last.

XXVIII. almuten, n.

A force beyond words.
A slow crescendo inside their skull.
Words they cannot ignore:
You are a burden;
Nobody wants you here;
You do not belong;
Everything you touch decays.

XXIX. hat tip, n.

Cold air through an open window.
Cold words on crumpled paper.
Cold acrylic of a bathtub.
Cold steel of a razor blade.

XXX. alogical, adj. and n.

There isn’t really a word
for the grief that drowns you
when you find your child
dead in their bathroom.

There especially isn’t a word
for the waves of grief and guilt
when you find your partner’s kid,
who you never particularly cared for,
bled white, their final note
in your trembling hand.

A Moored Ship After a Storm

Each section is based on the Oxford English Dictionary’s word of the day from November, 2020.

I. Spiritato, n.

Rosa sits between
her sister, Haylee, and Uncle Martin.
Tired from the four-hour drive
across the state.

Her grandma asks Uncle Martin
to lead the family in Grace.
He clears his throat loudly,
so that the kids in the other room hear too.

His Grace is long—
as it is every Thanksgiving—
expressing thankfulness
for every event in the family’s year
he gathered from his Facebook feed.

She stretches her neck left and right,
looks at each bowed head
with closed, reverent eyes—
utterly baffled at the sincerity.

II. Volcanello, n.

Uncle Martin closes Grace
quoting the priest of his church

which Rosa stopped attending
her junior year in high school

after he gave a sermon
about women’s role in the home.

She bites her cheek,
metal on her tongue,

closes her eyes, a scream
escapes as a restrained sigh.

III. Pastinaceous, adj.

Grandpa Leo carves the turkey,
serves a slice to each person
around the table,
same as he does every year—

a tradition
passed down to him
from his father,
from his father’s father—

a taproot
reaching down
so far
no one can see the end.

IV. Overberg, n. and adj.

A polite smile on Rosa’s face
as she accepts her slice
from Grandpa Leo.

He pauses, smiles.
“We’re so glad
you were able to make it this year.”

She nods, fidgets
with her napkin on her lap
to avoid eye contact.

When she looks up, it feels
like looking at a mountain range
from a fire lookout.

V. Sprusado, n.

The Walker-Estradas are not a
sedentary family.

As soon as it seems like
everyone’s done eating,
there is no sit-and-talk
like business people during a lunch rush.
No, the dining room is abandoned
for places to stand—
the kitchen, the patio, the living room.

Rosa gets up from her seat,
pinches the button-up
she wore on Wednesday’s shift
through her cardigan,
flattens any potential wrinkles,
adjusts her tie.

A deep breath before
she grabs her water glass,
tentatively walks
toward the patio.

VI. Hot-Brain, n.

Rosa didn’t really plan ahead—
the decision
to drive over the pass
to see her mom’s family
for Thanksgiving was
last-minute.

She was wiping down
the tables and booths in her section
after the last party left—
the Wednesday before Thanksgiving
always nonstop.

All night,
she heard people talk about
their plans—
seeing their families, elaborate recipes.
The hosts were talking about it while
wrapping silverware in napkins for Friday
when the dam broke—
she missed home.

Afraid of chickening out,
she stopped by the Arco
on the corner of the parking lot,
bought gas and a 5-hour Energy,
drove toward the highway.
Her only stop
was at a rest area outside Srague
for a nap.

VII. Cheesed, adj.

Maybe it was
a reasonable response,
maybe it was
because she slept in her car,
but

when she got to the patio,
heard Uncle Martin grimace about
“illegal votes,”
she groaned,
“Oh shut up, man!”

All eyes on her,
every conversation halted.
“Um, excuse me."
She sips her water,
walks back inside.

VIII. Chedi, n.

Solace in the bathroom
down the hall by the guest room.
Rosa places her glass on the counter
next to a picture of her sister
waving from the top of a ladder
leaned against exposed plywood.

She sits on the toilet lid
taking deep breaths to center herself.
She stares at other pictures, souvenirs
on the wall from Haylee’s
white-savior, voluntourism trip to Mexico
with her church group.

IX. Waynpain, n.

Before enough time passes
that her family would think
something’s wrong,
Rosa flushes the toilet for
the illusion of normalcy.
She washes her hands—
pure muscle memory—
stares at the soap dispenser.

She remembered

an afternoon
when
she was a child watching
Legends of the Hidden Temple reruns
when
her dad came in
after working in the yard,
his shirt inside out
over her ears, draped like a ponytail.

“Wanna see a magic trick?”
he asked between gulps of water
from a weathered half-gallon jug.
Rosa jumped up from the couch,
followed him to the sink.
He ran the water. “Clear, right?”
He filled his jug to illustrate.
“Watch.” He paused,
concentration on his face.
“Abracadabra!”

He shoved his hands under the water,
gripped his fists, twisted them like
he was trying to get the last bit
of toothpaste out of the tube.
The water pooling in the sink
turned brown, matte.

“Whoa!!!” Rosa exclaimed.

He snickered,
leaned close to her face, whispered,
“I turned it into poop.”

Rosa continued yelling,
but out of disgust,
as she ran back to the living room.

X. Presentific, adj.

Deep breath, Rosa.
They’re family, Rosa.
It’s going to be okay.

XI. Earthfast, adj.

Hand on the knob of the door,
one step from rejoining her family,
after practicing
all of her small talk.

She freezes.

Her fingers twitch.
Her breaths short.
Fully conscious of how long
she’s hidden in the bathroom.

Move. Move. Move.

XII. Pricket, n.

She closes her eyes,
counts to ten
between inhales, exhales.

Thaw the ice
in your skin,
Rosa.

She gulps
the rest
of her water.

XIII. Spiritus, n.

She breaks through the door
like a pika out of its burrow,
fueled by adrenaline
and guilt.

XIV. Callidity, n.

"Oh, don’t worry. I’m alright.”

Interspersed head nods,
sustained eye contact.
Ask follow-up questions
to avoid saying more
than necessary.

Be a screen
they can project onto.

XV. Ambilogy, n.

“Oh, you know,
work’s work.”

“Yeah, bills have been tough,
but I’ve managed.”

“No, haven’t really
been up to much else.”

XVI. Fascine, n.

To get a break,
Rosa walks over to the fireplace,
a fresh cord of wood
on tightly layered kindling.

She sits on the carpet, cross-legged
like she did as a child during story time.
Closing her eyes,
she feels radiant heat wash over her.

She imagines it mixing with
the warmth under her cheeks.
She starts to cry.
It shouldn’t be this hard.

XVII. Brewstered, adj.

She could feel the distance
palpable
between herself and her parents—

her shoulders and the mantle
accented
with plaques, senior portraits.

A dark marble slab
floating
in a red brick facade.

XVIII. Badderlocks, n.

“Hey Rosa!”

She shakes her head,
back in her body.

Haylee is behind her,
leaning to her left,
a plate in her right hand.
“You doin’ alright?”

“Uh, yeah,”
she stammers, rubs her eyes.
“I was just, uh, cold out there.
Needed a minute to warm up.”

Haylee straightens up, nodding.
“Mind if I sit with ya?”

She scoots over,
gestures at the space
before hugging her knees to her chest,
placing her chin in their crevice.

Haylee sits,
picks a grape tomato off her plate,
eats it. She asks, still chewing,
“Want one? I grew ‘em
in the planter out back.”

Rosa looks at the little bulbs
on the tilted plate, smiles.
“Sure.”

XIX. Reptiliferous, adj.

“You think you’ll ever tell ‘em?”
Annabelle asks
from the bench
adjacent to Rosa’s.

She wedges her mask down
to sip her mocha, readjusts it back up.
“I don’t know.” Her head shakes.
“Maybe.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Annabelle asks,
adjusting her scarf back over her nose.
“I don’t wanna pressure you, but
they should know.”

“It’s not- it’s hard.
My family’s not like yours.
We don’t-
I haven’t even
been back home in two years.

“And, like, everything I say
has to go through so many filters
when I talk to them.
Layers
of social appearances, Jesus, money-
I can’t just…
say it.”

Annabelle nods slowly,
sips her chai tea.
“They know you’re gay, right?”

“Uh, yeah.
I told them in high school.
It wasn’t a big thing.”

“You were able to tell them that.
Is this that different?”

Rosa stares at
where the sidewalk ends.
“It feels different.”

Annabelle reaches an arm forward,
clasps air,
struggle in her eyes.
“Is there
anyone in your family
you could tell?”

She takes another sip of her mocha.
“Haylee, maybe.”

XX. Molly-Blob

Haylee runs
her fingers through her hair—
blonde as marigolds—
over her ear.

Always protective
of Rosa, even though
she was the younger one
by two years.

Less judgmental
than her youth group friends—
bridges she’d torch in public
if scripture was quoted to justify hate.

A pang
of guilt in Rosa’s heart—
their roles
worn backwards.

XXI. Cockle Stairs, n.

“So, uh,
how has Whitworth been?”
Rosa asks.

“It’s pretty good, actually.
I mean, as good as it can be
with all the remote learning stuff.
Got to save money
by staying here though.”

“That ever annoying?
Like, not getting
the actual college thing as a freshman?”

“I mean- yeah?
I get why, but it IS disappointing, y’know?
Plus, Dad decided to start a new project,
‘cause workin’ from home
wasn’t enough for him—
turns out, most of his work day
was talking to his coworkers.

“Before he started building
that outdoor living room
for Seahawks games,
he’d try to talk to ME while I was in class.
I learned the mute button REALLY fast.

“It’s like-
I don’t know-
like, we’re all trying to get through this,
be better and responsible, right, but
it feels like
no matter how much we do,
we keep ending up
in the exact same place.”

XXII. Footpad, n.

Rosa nods slowly,
sips the last drops of water
in her glass.

“What about you?
How have you been?”
Haylee asks,
nudging her shoulder into Rosa’s.

She regurgitates her rote response.
“Oh, uh, it’s been alright.”

“That’s good to hear.
I’ve heard
it’s been really hard over there—
closures and restrictions
on restaurants and all.”

Rosa gulps.

“I worry about you is all.”

Rosa bites the inside of her lip.
“Well, uh” she starts.
Deep inhale, exhale.
“It actually has been hard.”
She nods, swallows.
“Most of my cash comes from tips;
when everything closed, that dried up fast,
let alone the reduction of shifts.”

Haylee places a hand on Rosa’s knee.

“I, uh-“
A gulp. A breath.
“At one point,
my dinners were leftover fries.
I’d, uh,
tell the cooks
one of the tables wanted
another helping of ‘em,
and since Red Robin does endless fries,
they wouldn’t question it;
they’d just scoop some in a basket,
place it in the window.
I kept a to-go container
under my coat in the back,
and stash ‘em there.”

“Rosa, you know
we’d help you if we knew-“

“I-“ Rosa cuts her off.
“I- I know.
It’s just…”

Rosa doesn’t finish the thought.
Her sister does what she always did:
hold her close and tight, tell her it’s alright.
Rosa does what she always did:
nod, go limp, cry into her shoulder.

XXIII. E-Waste, n.

In that moment—
a puddle in her sister’s sweater—
Rosa remembered
what she really missed about
home.

She thought about
the memes
her family shared on Facebook
spouting love and support
unconditionally,
how hollow each one left her.

But here,
it feels
real, full.

XXIV. Ambigu, n.

Her grandma’s turkey,
her mom’s cheesy mashed potatoes,
her uncle’s rosemary garlic bread,
her sister’s tomatoes.

Warm,
familiar,
home.

XXV. Cryonaut, n.

Uncle Martin
appears above them,
clearing his throat.

A plate in each hand.
A slice of pumpkin pie
her grandpa baked,
a scoop of ice cream
for each of them.

He purses his lips, nods,
offers a plate to both sisters,
who accept their desserts.

Rosa scoops a bit
of pie and ice cream,
bites.

She’s five, playing tag
in her grandparents’s backyard
with Haylee and their cousins.
Sundown. Only able to see
by the lights outside
her grandpa’s shop.
Their mom calls them in
for dessert.

She’s 40, returning
to this house again—
probably by self-driving hover car
or something— maybe
with Annabelle and kids of their own,
who play tag with Haylee’s kids,
and she calls them in
for dessert.

She realizes
she had never
imagined a life
that far in the future
for herself
before.

XXVI. Magnanerie, n.

In her head,
the house was plain,
peeling paint,
full of insects
gnawing at everything good.

She felt, now,
her misconception,
saw the bigger picture—
the soft sweater sleeves
wrapped around her torso.

“Haylee,” she hesitates.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”

XXVII. Amouring, n.

Not ready to say it
in front of her whole family,
Rosa leads Haylee
outside
to the driveway.

On the way, she rehearses what to say,
remembering July—
when the cases were low,
when she told Annabelle,
who immediately drove to her apartment,
despite Rosa’s protests, saying:
“In an emergency,
you have to break protocol.”

That night, after it all
calmed down,
as their legs were entwined on her bed,
she felt
human connection for the first time
in months.
Her head on Annabelle’s chest,
her heart a metronome in her ear,
up and down with her breath—
soft as a breeze through cedar branches—
like a moored ship after a storm.

“You didn’t have to come here-“
she started, waves of guilt in her eyes.

“Stop. I had to. I love you,”
Annabelle interrupted, then
tenderly kissed the top of Rosa’s head.

Rosa started to feel
like maybe
it was worth being alive.

XXVIII. Empedoclean, adj.

The driveway,
a large patch of gravel—
jagged fragments of earth shift
under her feet as she walks.

The fireplace,
a glimmer flickering in the window,
barely visible through
the November mist.

Deep breath,
cold air fills her lungs—
a brisk bite,
the kick she needs to move.

“Okay,” Haylee shivers.
“What’s going on?”

Rosa sighs, holds her elbows.
“So, uh- It’s hard to say.”

Haylee rubs her biceps.
“It’s alright. Take your time.”

“Things have been...
worse than I told you.

“When everything shut down,
I, uh, got laid off for a while.

“In July, when it seemed
like everything would turn around,

“my hours stayed low, and
I couldn't covers both bills and food,

“I was so isolated— couldn’t even
see other people, so-“

She winces, looks away from Haylee,
toward the stars over the road.

A gulp.
“I tried to kill myself.”

She lifts her shaky hand, rolls back
the sleeve of her shirt and cardigan.

XXIX. Slummock, v.

Haylee stares
at the scar
on Rosa’s wrist.

Quiet.

After a few seconds, maybe hours,
Haylee speaks.
“That’s a lot to process.
I appreciate you telling me;
it must have been hard.”
Her jaw clenches.
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?
Were you afraid to tell me?”

“No, no- I just-
I didn’t want to worry you,”
Rosa stammers.

“Well,” a frustrated exhale,
“you don’t have to tell me anything
you don’t want to, but
I’m always here for you;
I’m always going to support you.
It’s my job.”

“I want to tell you.
I wanted to tell you then, but I didn’t know how.”
She rolls her sleeve down.

Haylee grabs Rosa’s hand,
ice-sickle fingers around Rosa’s palm.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Rosa nods rigidly.

“I, uh, made the decision around 4, when I would have gone to work. A steak knife from the knife block on the counter. I held it in my hand; I could barely think. I texted Annabelle to say I’m sorry. She called me as I, uh-“

Rosa gestures at her wrist.

“I froze, heart racing, dropped the knife on the floor. The clang broke my concentration, and I answered her call. She came over immediately, told me to put a towel and pressure on it and not move until she got there.”

A gap. A space for Rosa to breathe.

“She saved me that day. She helped calm me down, didn’t try to push me into anything— just sat with me for hours.

“I don’t know if it was the blood loss or the heightened emotion of the whole thing or the first time I’d been with her outside of work in months, but I was overwhelmed, lost control over myself— I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her like-“

“Rosa. Gross.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

Haylee laughs, hugs her sister
tight as kite string in coastal wind.
“You don’t have to apologize;
I’m so glad you have a partner like her.”
She cries into Rosa’s shoulder.
“I’m so glad you’re still here.”

XXX. Hammer, n.

Her brain may be
where shadows loom;
where memories echo
in jarring fragments;
where thoughts, feelings,
breaths are held
for someone else’s sake.

But 
in the gaps between fractured earth,
in the secondary light of the moon,
in the warmth of her sister’s heart,
Rosa felt like she could overcome them.