My dog curls on the sunflower cushion next to me like a full blossom, head turned toward the
sunset light. House plants still sit outside on the concrete where I set them yesterday to be watered
by rain. I sit back and watch a man on Instagram inject a soft-boiled egg with soy sauce through a
hypodermic needle because he says it’s fantastic and great for ramen. The golden yolk spills out
tinted brown. He laughs and says his father found the needles and thought he was addicted to
heroin, but no, just running yolk like old blood. I think of the first and only time I saw someone
shoot up when I was walking down a creek-side bike trail in Colorado winter on my way to work. It
wasn’t snowing at the time but it had, so the snow on the ground was both dirt-stained and fresh
cotton at the same time. The green halo canopies and shade of trees that flanked the trail let some
snow keep but the sun during the daytime melted a lot away. It was almost Christmas and to say I
cried wouldn’t be the point. People are killing themselves for all kinds of reasons, in all kinds of
ways. Some in broad daylight. Some online. But we’re told not to say the word suicide because like
genocide some just can’t stand to hear it even though they’re watching. My phone dies and I let it.