my mother has always told me
that I was like the flu those nine
months she carried my forming
body around. and while many things
about me have changed (my hair
color, my friends, my mental health),
I still burn my path through all
that I do. I can’t help but to consume,
to collect all that I touch, because
I never know how long they will
be mine. I set them all to flames
and enjoy the glow, the embers,
the sound of disintegrating
desires because if I can’t
have it, no one else will either.

I’m so sorry that your fevered body
did not make it. I’m sorry that
when I touched you, your bones
collapsed like the wind absorbing
ashes. but you kissed me on the
ground and what was I to think?
what was I to do but to hold you
so closely that you fell apart to
the floor like a flower?I tried
many times to collect the petals,
but the damage was done.

we were shortly lived,
but we were an inferno.
we were the perfect match
and maybe that’s why
we burnt out so quickly.

if only there was a warning
of your arrival, of the havoc
you would wreak. the trail
of broken bones and
absolute despair you would
leave in your wake.
how good does it feel
to know the power that
you hold? ripping the
bark from the trees,
exposed and vulnerable.
warping and withering
foundations and frames,
the home we were supposed
to have together. it was never
your plan, was it?

let us take those little pills
one by one until we’re gone
from this detached demise,
this passive aggression
that rots this very foundation.
our frame is broken and I’m
afraid these cracks just can’t
be mended. but these charismatic
chemicals that dance through
our veins can blur the rough
ridges. the burn of bourbon
warms our cold shoulders
and suddenly the world
is rosy again. I can’t see
the white flags, but I can
see the glisten of your skin
and the curves of your smile.
the morning may look different,
but tonight we are in love.

I’ve felt like something was wrong with me
for not feeling at all. this flat, heavy indifference
that sits in the pit of my stomach, like whiskey
I haven’t even tasted. so uncomfortable in
this body, this state, like my skin is an
itchy, irritating sweater that I can’t seem
to pull off. I want to feel again. I want
to know what mornings are again. I want
to have this longing for life and experience
that had once made me want to actually
be awake. I’m sleepwalking. constantly
in this blurred phase that makes everything
slower, everything distant. maybe my body
is in shock, protecting me from the flood
of emotions from the empty bedroom you
left behind. maybe this is for the best.

drowned in this sadness, by your very hands.
burning the flesh off my bones
from the hell that I am.

extinguish the flames to revive me again
to drag me back just because you can.
the hour grows old, night turns to day
as you look for another way
to get me to stay.

I crowned you with gold
your heart is harder than stone
yet while you hurt me so much
I miss you when you’re gone.

moving on from you was my hardest task.
is my hardest task. present tense.
my friends’ concern grows with each
day that I spend confined to my room,
each day a word does not pass through
my mouth and they ask me why you were
so special. what about you hooked me.

and it is fair of them to ask cause I would
not expect them to understand the way
the morning sun lit up your eyes.
they’ve never noticed how that curl of your
hair always falls across your face. or
the way the right side of your mouth
raises a little higher than the other when
you’re about to say something sarcastic.
they don’t know how intimidating yet
intriguing you are, that it intoxicated me.
I had to always be near you.

and now you left me here to wake on
my own, to think only about your eyes
and the morning sun and how even you
managed to make 6 am so wonderful.
but you’re not here and the clock reads
1 pm and I still can’t manage to get out
of bed. how can I tell them what I’ve lost?
I’m left with this gaping wound that no one
can see, and drowning in the words I can’t speak.

to wake up to your voice
and to kiss the morning’s
first breath from your lips.
to feel your skin, like crushed
velvet, gliding against mine
under covers, softly lit by
the new day. to remember
your words, to take them
and keep them like a
photograph to take me back
to Saturday mornings with you.