my brother and i stand watching as a fire burns a bunch of stuff we don’t want anymore.
“if i had a dollar for every time i had a garbage fire since mom died, i’d have, like, thirty dollars,” i say.
“more than that,” he says.
i nod in agreement.
i’ve been burning stuff for years now. there’s always something to set on fire. it’s ritual at this point, soothing. if i don’t want something, i don’t worry about it. i burn it. a couch? gone to ashes. shelving, clothes, pillows, art. anything is subject to my fires. burning things you don’t want feels a hell of a lot better than donating them, that’s what i think. it’s ceremony. it’s a complete ending.
the heat burns my lips a little bit, but keeps the bugs away. i start writing this story in my head.
we debate on whether the moon is waxing or waning. i am pretty sure it’s waxing at about half-full.
my brother eats a plate of chicken nuggets with some sauce he made. he offers me a few but i decline on account of the stomach ache i had earlier this evening, so he gives the rest to the dog. we joke that the nuggets will ensure he lives forever.
then we talk about different ways to commit suicide.
“people who set themselves on fire,” i say, “now that’s fucking insane.”
“yeah,” he says. “it’s gotta hurt so bad.”
“jumping off a bridge is definitely a smoother option,” i say.
“it might be the way to go,” he says.
“yeah, except i wouldn’t want to be eaten up by a river that way,” i say.
“hanging is noble,” he says. “old fashioned.”
i agree. i’d consider hanging myself if i wanted to die really bad.
he moves the conversation to self-mummification, which i think is kinda lame but apparently happens. he says something about people doing it so they can linger in the in-between, but i don’t think that’s how the in-between works.
i think we’re all lingering in the in-between right now, present moment. it’s just like heaven and hell out here.
think about it. this life can’t be anything but a big fat limbo.
it’s a garbage fire and a half moon. it’s me, and my summer skin.
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