there is always a chance that I never woke up.
I know the story, the flirting, the push, the car.
the ambulance ride with Ry,
I’ve retold it so many times that
I can see it, seated, deeply in my frontal lobe.
a small torch, swishing in the dark,
bleeding loss of control.
quantum immortality suggests a split
like the “Y” shaped crack in my skull
new consciousness from a hospital bed
a long way from home.
every year my family remembers my face
intentionally, together.
not like the individual breaks.
not like the way that every time I see a set of antlers on the wall
I remember my Mothers Father.
wet grief, heavy eyes, confusing laughter.
when I tell the story I see a party and a yellow dress.
drunk twenty-year-olds with new faces
crowding into the wallpaper, with petals overwhelmed.
lingering smoke and light beer in the opening of a second decade.
when I tell the story I see the ambulance insides,
white-red-white, terminal overexposure
in an outburst of terrible enlightenment.
quick recognition of my best friend in the corner,
watching them watching my vitals.
when I tell the story I wake up to my parents
quietly waiting for my first appearance.
wide eyed naivety marking the end of adolescence
and the first breath of uncertainty.
I died in 2008, in the story.
but my edges are fuzzed and
my souvenirs are ordinary treasures
and a constant ringing in my ears.
the source code beautifully banal.
when I tell the story
I can’t help but wonder if I died in 2008.
or if the idea is just a split-brain relief for my previous
lack of vocabulary in terms like anxiety, depression,
attention, and overthinking.
I almost died in 2008.