Editor’s Note: A slightly different version of this essay by author Katie Crouch was originally published in ZYZZYVA’s 100th issue, which is very good (and now on newsstands).
Everett Collection / Justine Zwiebel / BuzzFeed
I’m thinking about suicide. Not my own—not that. I’m screwed up, sure. I know about the yawning vortex. Talk to me at three a.m. when I’m groping through the house, chased awake. I can see The Great Nothing in the blinking lights on the television; can hear it in the yowls of the coyotes in the neighbors’ fields. I can actually feel certain death, cold as the bathroom mirror while nearby, my family breathes on.
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