and your heart isn't lost
and you're worthy of love
and i know the feeling of
feeling dragged to the bone
and i know strength
because i've seen it

midnight late last week
photos on the wall
of someone i don't even know at all
i still can see her face
she was only eight
relaxed as hell
she was my baby before she became a lady

some prophesies burn down
long before they can disappear
there's a reason that one stuck out
stuck out wider than the others
with leering eyes and reeking of charm
all you need is a hand to take a hold of the scene

it is a choice
it is inevitable
it is selfish
it is selfless
it is weak
it is strong
it is forever
it is never
it isn't erasing pain, it's sharing it.
it is the reflection of a blade, lowered, from the throat of your reflected image.
it's sleeping it off again and again and again and again towards infinity.

it's the smell of the pillow
still warm.
it's the hair collected in the sink.
it's the ***** dishes that
no one ever bothered to clean.
it's the journal entries
of a high-school dropout.
it's the mail piling up
unopened.
it's the constant reminders of your voicemail
filled to capacity.
it's the cold steel of a knife
pressed to the throat of your reflected image.

eventually, no one could mourn correctly; they'd all become so accustomed to the death of children. friends and friends of friends and friends of friends of friends. an entire generation, lost to heaven. the feeling of loss dwindled when men, women, and children learned to harden their hearts. why bother when we're all just born to leave? nowadays, the survivors live in ghost towns, shut-in and alone. sometimes, it's better not to talk about it. eventually, it's just too late.

I left for the funeral but somehow ended up at your house instead. I let myself in and laid myself into your bed. I pulled up all the covers and cried for everyone who's ever lost another. I talked of was and when, and my fear of never feeling right again. I talked til my mouth ran dry and my lips ran red. I hugged the pillow that still smelled of you while I laid quiet and remembered you. A lock turns, a door opens, it's the sound of heavy breathing, it's the fact that you've been chosen.



What about me.