K S LO ENGLISH

This week,

I’ve never been able to succeed at anything.

I started to feel,

“Is there something wrong with me?”

Then,

I began to monitor every move of my soul,

Seven times.

But I found,

These seven times,

I despised it too.

 

The first time,

Between wide cobblestone avenues and thorny paths,

It chose the former.

 

The second time,

Between lust and reason,

It chose the former.

 

The third time,

Seeing its untended fruit trees failing to bear fruit,

It stole other people’s work.

 

The fourth time,

It could have climbed to the top of the mountain,

But it chose to live halfway up the mountain.

 

The fifth time,

It feared the strong,

But mocked the weak.

 

The sixth time,

It was weak,

But thought that’s how it should be.

 

The seventh time,

It wanted to change,

But it was all talk.

 

I wanted to scold the soul,

But the shaper of souls,

Is me.

(Inspired by “Seven Times I Have Despised My Soul” by Khalil Gibran)

The day after the tragedy,

I sat on my bed, waiting for sunrise.

I climbed off my bed and slipped on my slippers.

I rinsed the dishes and did the laundry.

I fried some eggs and sprinkled some salt on them.

I slotted the bread in the toaster and waited for it to become toast.

I washed an orange and squeezed it into a juice glass.

I washed the pan, I washed the dishes, I cleaned the stove.

Just like the day I left.

The morning was splendid.

The day after the tragedy,

I sat in the park, waiting for someone to sit beside me.

I watched a jogger run past me, he didn’t even glance my way.

I watched a dog walker stride past me, the dog didn’t even bark at me.

I watched a toddler waddle past me, the child pointed at the apple tree behind me.

I really enjoyed sitting in the park.

Just like the day I left.

The day after the tragedy,

I settled on the couch, waiting for my family to utter a word.

My mom, who was clutching one of my watches, scrubbed it over and over until she couldn’t.

The watch was spotless, it was sparkling, but it was frozen at the time I left.

My dad, who was holding a note I wrote, read it over and over until he couldn’t.

The note was mundane, it was crumpled, but the ink was still as vivid as the day I left.

My brother, who was holding a pen of mine, clicked it over and over until he couldn’t.

The pen wasn’t very expensive, it was flawed, but the ink flowed as smoothly as the day I left.

The room was silent, I could hear a pin drop.

I liked sitting on the couch.

Just like the day I left.

The day after the tragedy.

I tried talking to the body in the morgue.

I smiled at him.

I talked about the sunrise, I talked about breakfast.

I talked about the jogger, I talked about the dog walker.

I talked about the couch, I talked about his parents.

The day after the tragedy.

I sat next to my coffin.

It was drizzling, everyone held an umbrella.

I perched on my tombstone, waiting for them to leave, waiting for the rain to end.

I regretted what I had done, I tried to reenter the body.

But all there was,

Dead silence.

 

Inspiration from the poem——The Morning After I Killed Myself by Meggie Royer