Chloe Caldwell

Daffodils and Deodorant and You

I will not die on my birthday. I will not die on my birthday. I will not die on my birthday even though the daffodils are up and alive already on this weird coast reminding me too early that my birthday is coming and that I will be another year older and that I still do not have myself as I want myself. I will not turn my birthday into a death day.

Dumb Daffodils.

I will not have a sobbing phone call. I will not have a mass email. I will not have a friend find me dead and alone in my kitchen. Birthday cake will not be eaten at my grave over the next few years because I will not die on my birthday.

I will not copy you. I will not copy you. I will not copy you even though I used to copy you I will not copy you this time.

I will not do heroin. I will not do heroin. I will not do heroin because I only did heroin once or thrice with you and I want it to stay there—with you—only you, with you on your wood floor, melted hot in your spoon by your bookshelves in your part of Brooklyn during the day.

I will not do heroin even if it is free. Even if I am sad.

I will understand. I will understand because I do understand. I do understand wanting to die.

I will understand what it is like to be in a sterile new apartment alone in a city with a high suicide rate and have your phone not ring for days. To give it a little shake to make sure it is alive and working.

I will understand sending cryptic texts and having vacant sex.

I will remember your backpack and wear my own.

I will remember your preferred deodorant and vodka brands that you carried in your backpack and carry my own.

I will remember to share my deodorant and vodka with whomever I am drinking or sleeping with.

I will remember how you produced creatively constantly and I will produce my own.

I will remember your hair dye and dye my own.

I will remember your apartment, how it was more like a museum, colorful and messy and I will create my own.

I will listen to your songs and sing my own.

I will read your poems and write my own.

I will write.

I will sing.

I will not die on my birthday.

I will try to be the person you described me as in your poem:

“Small locks fall on shoulders full of faith.”

I will stay small and full and locked and faithed.

I will write.

I will sing.

I will not hang myself on my birthday this spring.

CP

Chloe Caldwell is addicted to email and also to oatmeal. Sometimes together. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gloom Cupboard, Zygote in my Coffee, and Gutter Eloquence.