i wrote this while driving from harriman state park to new york city

25 Mar 2025 - Miranda

i know what happens when you die. i know because my heart stopped beating for four minutes and fifty-seven seconds. it’s not the world record for time deceased before resurrection but it’s in the top thirty. if i still went out i know what the girls at house parties would say behind my back. i know the whispers because i used to be one. i try not to think about going out. projecting a life once lived is however hard to avoid. fleeting memories of scary terry weekend carries. returning rush of a freshly crushed eight ball after smelling spilt gasoline on north face pants. death feels like how you think it would. if you think how i think. father used to say think long think wrong but he’s gone now. his heart has ceased beating for four years and one-hundred days. he would certainly hold the world record if he went jesus mode. i don’t go out anymore because i am sober. i’m not the cool sober person that can rinse the town without using a hose. not the chain smoking kind of sober. not the a little too into transcendental meditation kind of sober. i’m the worst kind of sober. the side effects and warnings kind of sober. a walking gray’s anatomy of the damage substances wreak on the liver and mind wrapped in missionary whites. i know how the internal engine goes tick because i’m on my third semester of biology courses at BMCC. Biology 220. Microbiology. Genetics. Anatomy and Physiology II. Organic Chemistry Lab. most awake time is spent rotating this thirteen hour course load upstairs. there have been previous forays into the concept of body. the semester where being a medical doctor seemed doable. the three years of online research on the endocrine system before starting estrogen. but this time is different. there is no end, just the means. the insides of bodies used to terrify me. now it’s the reason i get out of the twin bed. i’m miserable to be around now. because i am miserable. drugs used to be my thing. some people paint or write or rock climb. i did drugs. i don’t do drugs since the 23rd of september. on account of the four minutes and fifty-seven seconds. there were off-ramps. there are always off-ramps. the ex-girlfriend you grew to resent for the crime of caring. the two weeks of AA after pissing in maggie’s bed. the exit is there. it’s never too late to flick on the turn signal and merge at thirty-five miles per hour. driving down I-10 until the pavement ends is romantic on paper but takes you to santa monica in practice. to no longer be apart of the boiling water is fucking terrifying. trust me. i know what happens when you die.