cross-examining myself while on trial after my third failed suicide attempt:
Please state your name for the record. Roya Marsh. You were working as a poet, activist, and educator for a nonprofit at the time of the assault, is that correct? Yes. Is it true that your work doesn’t offer you a real chance to clock out? Yes. Is it true that you have never refused to work overtime? My job is to be as real as possible. You can not turn that off. Your family craves more attention than they are owed, correct?… They are often the last on your list of priorities, isn’t that right? No. What of the dead?… Your grandmother died on your birthday, is that correct? Yes. How often did you spend time with her? As much as I could, I swear. Is it true that you spent your entire summer writing poems and traveling to perform? No. Well, yes, but not entirely. Is it yes or no, Ms. Marsh? I, I—I don’t know. I was with her every chance I could be. And you only came in second place? Was it worth it?… Again, what of the dead? Not just your grandmother, but what of your brother? What of the one with no gun? What of the one with mental illness? Dead. All dead. What did you do for them? How do you feel knowing you’re still breathing? Would you rather trade places with the deceased? Withdrawn. Of course you would.
Objection. Can you…? Can you object? You object-ify your sanity on a daily basis because you have yet to learn a better way to survive. Sometimes wanting to die and trying to are the only reminders that you are still alive. Ms. Marsh, you are still alive.
In direct examination, you stated that you are in control, is that correct? Yes. But you failed. You are a failure. That’s not a question. What do you know of control? You are a failure that fails at failing. That’s not a question. Why were you unsuccessful? What went wrong? Where are you now? What of the body? Where is the body? Where is your body, Ms. Marsh?
You wanna know what I did with the body? What is a body, anyway? Known only because someone called it so. Without my consent. Awarded me this trophy. Covered in fingerprints, dust & grime. The body should be on trial. Fuck, the body is a trial. My memory, a field of landmines. I blink and everything I have tried to forget blows up in my face. The shrapnel, that is where I exist. In the rations of everything that has happened to me. Not in a body. So, I tried to get rid of it. Use it against itself. If you look hard enough down the throat of a bottle. You’ll find it. Lying, almost lifeless, somewhere between death and freedom.