I can go weeks, now, without wanting to kill myself. I never expected this would happen. These days, I think about suicide the way I think about updating my resume, or cleaning my bathroom floor. I’m convinced, still, that living is more difficult than meaningful, but the feeling just sits with me as I fold shirts in bed. Then, I do my homework.
It had been so long since I’d heard my serotonin. She sounds like my mother. Quiet as ever, but always humming — singing, under her breath, the lullabies the meds have taught her.
*An earlier version of this poem appeared on the Brown University Hispanic Studies department website on February 18, 2022, as part of a winning entry for the 2021 Borderlands Literary Prize and Latin American & Latinx Diversity.