the morning after you kill yourself, it will be like any other day. Meggie Royer wrote this tragically beautiful — or beautifully tragic — poem titled “The morning after I killed myself.” As part of a class reflection, I had written “I wanted to write 21 lines, because I’m turning 21 this year and I love one-ending numbers.” For the sake of this poem, let’s imagine this holds true. The story ends before the 2 can replace the second 1. It got me thinking. What would my morning look like if I were to up and disappear? Hermit crab is a well-earned, happily/willingly donned title, but it just adds to the fact that the morning after will be like any other day. Untouched, unbothered, the lake unmoved. There is no reflection, I did not exist. Maybe there will be an empty seat in class, some scrambling to take my name off the registration list, an inconvenience to empty my room out in my absence. Perhaps not significant enough to reach footnote level, but a girl can hope. Can’t she? Words following words but I beg of you make it make sense. Please. Will she finally rejoice when she gets her van Gogh back or will there be tears? Maybe it’ll be a field day, Absence larger than life, a breath of fresh air, room to breathe, freedom to move. Would I like it to be the first? Yet somehow. Absence won’t be a hole; a tiny, imperceptible blemish, possibly. A series of unremarkable sentences lie before me. What do I pathetically leave them with, but this fragmented essay? And to think this arrives just as I was finally becoming better at writing happy-adjacent poetry. But the day will persevere and for that I am grateful. No ruckus, quiet or otherwise. Ceasing to exist for others presents the opportunity to exist for yourself and yourself only. The sun will rise, the waves will give way to sand, my book pages will crumble between fingertips, weighed down by time. The toasts will be buttered and the traffic lights will turn red/yellow/green and laces will be tied for another adventure and nails will be painted for another party. With each passing tick, I’m hyperaware of the lightlightlight imprint I will leave. Or maybe not. Maybe this Haibun will carry the torch.

So I craft obit-

uaries. Nobody des-

erves an unmarked grave

“The morning after I killed myself” by Meggie Royer: https://www.reddit.com/r/Poetry/comments/ayrday/poem_the_morning_after_i_killed_myself_by_meggie/