someone told me i wear mourning like a fur coat
beautifully, grotesquely, i bear the weight of it all
i paint my face and it should be with ash
but i am not native
i have no roots to sink my heaviness towards
the heaviness of a burden i don’t deserve to carry
the night i heard i held myself tightly, arms wrapped around my torso
my mouth gaped open
i turned on the shower as hot as i could stand it
i hope it felt cathartic when you set yourself on fire
set your home on fire
you said sorry as you went
you were always apologizing
some people lay in comas for years
miracles happen, they say
and they do
i wonder who waited 4 ******* days for a miracle before giving up on you
my therapist helped me set up a self-care routine to keep panic attacks at bay
it involved lighting a candle so i just slit my wrist instead
i could take the pain but fire feels cheap
i wonder if you screamed
the day after i found out
i walked to my mother’s coffee shop,
sat down outside,
and choked on sobs until the dam burst
i put on my sunglasses and went home
i made the last 10 minutes of psychology class
we were discussing grief
the professor explained the stages
he mentioned denial
i said i didn’t believe that was always the case
that night i laid in bed drinking chocolate milk from the carton
i watched American beauty,
alternating between touching myself and screaming into a pillow
i dreamt about the slutty insinuation of a used match
i dreamt about fathers and plastic bags
it’s 2:30 am i am sitting alone in a ball room with a man who told me he needs a machine to sleep
he is telling me that he is happy he lost the highs and lows
he can’t fall in love but he is happy
i told him my mania makes me
he smiles indulgently, he is the cat
(i spent the day buying imported lingerie
French silk and canary yellow lace)
when we danced he put his knee between mine and crushed my ******* to his chest
i wonder if he felt the way blackberry brandy made my words syrupy and dark
pooling at the base of my throat
he said life only gets weirder from here
i am waiting for him to get his keys. i am alone at 3 am in a ballroom. i am seeing burning houses. i am tasting blackberries. i am hearing you whisper “collide”. i am wearing my mourning like a fur coat and in it i am small and vulnerable and beautiful in a contained way
in it i can stay within the confines of 2011 and i can feel you peel back layers of longing to hit a pit of bitter love
this was never a poem about you
you’re sorry
Thomas Forsyth 1/19/92-5/29/14