I went to visit your grave,

after you’d swallowed those pills.

A solitary flower stood

proud

next to your headstone.

I thought it was propped up

in a test tube vase.

It was not.

In fact, it grew

up from the earth:

a hurricane flower.

A hot coral-red

dead spider

aloft a skinny verdant stem.

It was no surprise to me

that this particular flower

graced your death

with its presence.

The name “hurricane flower”

comes from how they appear,

like disaster’s rainbow,

after storms,

a sign from God

that peace had been found again.

You lay

at peace

after your whirlwind life.

You were a star!

Though you never believed it.

You sang and danced and partied.

You partied hard,

too hard.

It showed in your dry skin

and the bags under

your sunken eyes.

You were clever

and wrote

the most heart-wrenching songs.

Your own heart wrenched

and clenched

barely able to pound.

I understand

why you decided to go.

You hurt.

It hurts.

Now I hurt.

I wish you’d let me

commiserate with you.

Now I stoop

before your gravestone

and trace the carving of your name

careful not to step

on the flower.

This flower you sent me,

saying, “Do not forget me!”

Darling, I’ll never forget you.

I’m tempted to pluck it,

preserve you,

keep you forever.

But I leave it,

standing proud,

to greet the next person

who visits you.

You always did bring smiles.

Randi Neville (she/they) is a disabled queer writer originally from Conroe, Texas. They are currently working on her first novel and continuing their poetic journey. Their interests include watching pro-wrestling, watercolor painting, and being the world's best aunt. They are previously published in Vagabonds, Coffee People Zine, and forthcoming in The Listening Eye. They currently reside in Houston, Texas with their husband and family. Find them on Instagram and X at @RandiTheAuthor

Author's Notes: I want to break the stigma that suicidal ideation is something one suffers with alone and in silence. Staying quiet with your struggles helps no one, yourself included. Please stay; you're not alone.