Sometimes I feel like
I know all of the sad girls
in the whole wide world.

They call me crying,
or text me in the middle
of panic attacks.

They want attention
but only for themselves so
I disappoint them.

Morally bereft;
selfish for not suffering,
or not like they do.

I am an angel,
but only by default, or
just for being here.

Only for staying
a stationary angel;
to suffer with them.

I have grown heavy,
from their tears and loneliness
and their jealousy.

I can't fall asleep,
at least easily, because
of all the sad girls.

I've tried portaiture,
but for some old reason
I find it hard
to eulogize the living.

And when I do try,
the details just never seem
to fit right,
it's too much
or not enough
or just plain inaccurate,
from a few steps back.

I'll paint your actions, alright
'cause I can watch those happen
start to finish,
but I wouldn't pretend to be good enough
to encapsulate a whole person
-all that transient multicolor light under your halo-
with my petty vain jabber,
my incomplete vocabulary
of unflattering grunts-

take it as a compliment.