We were driving to your funeral & our father was not crying because he has a way of tying ribbons around grief. It was the year we learned the piercing that prefaces the blood holds the most delicate of darknesses. Then it was the year we opened all our faucets & waited for the sea to bleed to death. Then it was the year we set fire to your mitt. Then, suddenly the year we started to believe every thorn was just a bridge. Then the year all we talked about was boxing. Then the year my stomach hurt all year, & then the year no one spoke of you.
If there were an antonym for suicide we could all choose when to be born. I would have been born after that day so I could not remember you. So my fingers would stop pointing at all the things that aren’t there.