CW: Death, Suicidal Ideation

You must begin by playing ambient music and burning candles scented like that creek you found in the second grade with the rooster’s body floating in it. When the room is warmer than your worst summer, run the bathwater until steam drifts in a haze before the mirror and then remove your clothes one piece at a time, folding each neatly in a pile. Perfect. For the next part—don’t be scared—you will need the knife you dropped at dinner when your hands were shaking so hard you couldn’t see. You will make a small incision in the sternum, but, again, don’t worry: There will be no blood. Bodies are meant for this. From there, your skin will slip from your body as easily as the peel from the brown banana you ate in small bites last week. You will step from your skin and fold it neatly for the pile, and immediately you will feel good, better. Next, find those jars—you will need jars—and place your organs in them, gently, the way you held your father’s hand when you saw him eight days ago, skin thick and cold. Step into the water. Let it engulf your bones. This is the most human you have ever felt—stripped to your barest layers, you want to beg your father’s ghost to haunt you, explain that just because he can die doesn’t mean you should, too.