Yellow.

For all this talk of wanting to be found, there are points in my life when I desperately want to get lost.

And Nelson, you told me not to write a post about death in light of what's happened. But Nelson, I just can't get it off of my mind. Maybe I have to write in order to gather my thoughts. To sort them into nice, neat little categories before I can push them aside to the remote corners of my brain. But these categories are hard to label. The taste of charcoal. The smell of the yellow walls. Incoherent. Asking for water. Asking for water. Throwing up. Looking for love on the whiteboard because of the nurses' promises, and staring at the <3 for what it was instead of a pain management goal.

Because I was the Titanic and Monday was just another unassuming iceberg floating along in the Atlantic.

What came first? Learning the "F word" or forgetting how to share? Earning my stripes or my stretch marks? Screwing boys or scaring you shitless? I didn't start swearing because I have a small vocabulary. I started swearing because I have a large vocabulary, and swear words are an additional ten.

Eyes don't tell you near as much about a person as their skin. How much they're showing and how much they're not showing. And my pants kept slipping down and my gown slid off my shoulders, but I was too sick to care.

Yellow was the color of my hospital room. Yellow was the color they painted the walls in the name of no more suicide attempts. The color of the bins at UNI. The hat. The suicide note I should have written. Trapped.

White was the color of the flowers my grandparents sent. The color of my face. The color of the Tylenol.

Green was the color my grandparents wore when they flew from Colorado to visit me for my birthday.That night they told me they would love me no matter what. That night my grandma hushed my grandpa for talking too loud in "a place like this." The color of the courtyard, barred in. Birthday money.

Blue. The bruising from the IV's. The scrubs. Waking up in the hospital on my eighteenth birthday.

Pink was the color of the bins at Primary Children's. The first suicide note I wrote. The shirt my aunt sent.

Black was the color of the charcoal. The color of the pills rising to the surface. The color of the druggies' words they spit. Drug references, suicide references.

God's given me a second chance. But all I can think about is what I've done with the first chance. Hope was the water before the fall. The shout before the break. God tells me to marry the light, but the darkness is still so alluring. Even though I've learned Death's a bitch when she gets close. She's seductive as hell from a distance, and when she's got you in a committed relationship with no way out, she takes off her makeup, she takes off her heels, she forgets. She forgets you only fell for her because you were chasing a mirage. Her lips bruise your throat with the faintest touch.

I can't tell you a lot about what Death is, but I can tell you a lot about what Death is not. Death is not kind. Death is not a peaceful way to go. Death is not yellow, but I learned she is not all black either. Death is not feminine with her hands wrapped delicately around your throat, but Death is definitely a woman. Death is not satisfied by a suicide attempt.

I don't know a lot of things. I don't know why I'm waiting for God's number to appear on my contact list. I don't know why Warren Buffet keeps offering his billion dollars when he knows no one will submit the perfect draw. I don't know why we have two hearts or why one heart beats out of my chest in response to my other heart or why we cry over spilt milk. I don't know why I keep asking bones questions expecting an answer or why they answer in question format. I don't know why the sky is blue or why the sun is yellow or why I see colors instead of black and white. I don't know why you're stuck in my dreams and I don't know why I wake up wishing you would get the fuck out of my head. Because they're such pleasant nightmares.

And the world was ending, and no one cared. And we found indifference one blank stare at a time. But I couldn't remove my doubts far enough from my mind to achieve the same blank stare. But I tried.

Maybe everything I write is meant to be depressing. Maybe those neon painted fingernails are really stars and every time she pounds the keyboard, she's making her world go round. She's interspersing sex and dying with the sounds of laughter and she doesn't know any other way to survive. Maybe she likes to be surprised by her smile. Maybe she likes to be surprised at the little things.

And swallowing those pills still didn't teach her who would show up at her funeral.