Death of a Nihilist [poetry]

29. lest we fall asleep

mama came home today and said:

she wanted to die.

wanted to commit suicide.

wanted to end it all.

wanted death to free her

from the weight of breathing, waking, blinking,

eating, cooking, drinking, showering, sleeping.

wanted death to save a little of her soul

which died with every drive to work and back,

while listening to the preppy pop songs on the radio,

and trapping in damned traffic jams, inching along.

wanted death to kiss the tears brimming along her lashes,

for each faltering sleep burning in another blackout night,

waiting for papa to botch another bad job

or us to running home, with a grin and a suitcase,

clothes still reeked of gasoline and travel.

there was no regret in mama's voice,

only a certain calloused calmness amidst

these monotonous days,

these loveless joys,

these forlorn seasons.

neither my sister nor i

rolled off the bed to hug her.

instead, we flushed her sleeping pills,

hid cold kitchen knives,

emptied herbicide jugs in the shed,

swiped plastic bags out of sight.

and at night, we watched her mirror reflection

leaned against the windowsill,

pupils glazed with the wrong kind of fog.

the dimpled smile caved

into the hollow of her cheeks,

rotting, festering, decaying

to the rumbling rain and the shrieks of cicadas

crawling aboveground for the first time

in thirteen years.

we didn't look at her face,

didn't stare into her eyes.

instead, we reminded her to breath, wake, blink,

eat, cook, drink, shower, sleep.

drove her to work and back,

changing the default radio station to old rock

paying to use the empty toll road.

washed the smell of gas and cramped SUVs off our skin

and held her in our arms till her insomnia petered off

into white noise skitching at the back of her brain.

we didn't want to think,

to believe:

soon.

mama.

dead.

gone.

⸻

prompt: blackout