I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye.
I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye.
I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye.
I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye.
I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye.
I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye.
On my knees, falling to the ground, in your arms, screaming,
I never got to say goodbye.
Aug 12, 2020
Aug 12, 2020 at 12:27 PM UTC
After your memorial service I spent time with one of your partners, a cam star, along with a mutual friend who was also your **** dealer. We smoked shimmering moon rocks, exchanged books, and took pictures. I wanted to mobilize, but didn’t know what for.
My body felt electric at the root, ready for action,
if only I knew what.
We all said we would keep in touch,
and I desperately wish we had.
I never got my books back.
So many things fell apart when you died.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 10:16 PM UTC
My heart feels squeezed out when I write about you.
Lighter, and more free to beat against its veins, and ligaments, and bones. I need to let go of as much as I can so that I can thrive into the future, free of the weight of having known you and your passing.
When you would cry to me,
when you swallowed all those pills
I never felt you were a burden.
The weight of having known you can crush me some days.
I cannot go on
a pancake of a person.
So, I unload your memory onto pages of dry pulp and dye
and pray you cannot seep back beneath my skin
where you sometimes make a home.
Pages of you act like scripture for a god I don’t believe in,
that neither of us believed in.
God does not exist,
the afterlife is not real
pages are all that house you now.
I cling to my un-belief,
but don’t have faith enough
in absolutes, to feel
convinced that you’re gone.
Aug 6, 2020
Aug 6, 2020 at 10:06 PM UTC