CW: suicide

I grew up in funeral homes. I know my eulogy will not be about me but what others think. My family won’t know who to call. They think the uncle I never speak to is more important than a friend they’ve never heard of: East Coast, East LA, and Orange County, I call my sisters.  I know that pan y cafe will be served at five o'clock. The song playing behind the black clothes will be “Somos Una Familia.” Dear God, I should marry a rich man, or woman, or both. But I never leave the house. If I blink, will this become my final destination in Hollywood? Maybe Hollywood and Highland. Maybe buy the chocolates with extra fiber in the pharmacy aisle. Fatass. I should turn off my location. Mama waits at the door with tears and a warning about spiking blood. She told me what was safe for the last twenty years. Youthful adventures at K-mart. I should buy some almonds, a snack to fit in jeans. I am in the “prime of my life.” Why do I feel like the crone on the mountain? La Llorona, broken boundaries, my maternal family's side of Facebook. I am the oldest but always asking for help. My brother is the manager of a Pollo Loco. I can’t manage to drive my car away from this flood. The pink phone charger is cute, but I keep seeing its potential as a rope. I pray for my sanity.