the
people living next door to me probably wrote newspaper articles about their neighbour’s
promiscuity, thinking
we were ******* when
really doors were just being
slammed with an exuberant amount of
passion. anger
holds more truth than love sometimes and
often, winter forbids happiness to
be. i
cut my hair to teach myself
loss and i guess it came in handy when
you left. too much,
you said. i was too much. too much
hugging, kissing, writing,
clinging,
clinging,
clinging. i
was the dryer sheet desperate enough in
love with your tshirt that i had no
plans to ever let
go. i
don’t hug you as much anymore, and
i never kiss you. but
i do still call you twice a day. i guess
i’m still working on that ‘not clinging’ thing. i guess
i’m just as awful as my neighbours
thought. but
there’s a difference, i wore you out, you wore me down.

my aunt miscarried in october.
i remember thinking: strange, her
baby died in the
month when the dead were supposed to come back to
life. her
face sags more now, it's almost as if the
baby tugged at every inch of
her on its way down to the
underworld. my
uncle has gained a few pounds, too. the
weight of absence sits heavy on his once muscular
shoulders. i
thought i tasted true
sadness when he left
me, but i didn't account for the
bitterness of having to sell baby
shoes never once
worn. my
aunt still has her list of favourite baby
names hanging on her bedroom
door, but she turns it around
some days when she's feeling extra
sad. my
uncle doesn't talk to my
aunt much anymore. i
wonder if he blames
her. i
wonder if he blames
himself. i
wonder why the world takes things from you too
early on, and if you
complain you're thought of as a bad
person. i
wonder if you stop living when part of you
dies.

forget the drugs. yeah, they’re going
around and yeah, they’re pretty
dangerous, but they don’t take as many
lives. stop searching kids’
lockers and start looking for the deeper
stuff, the things that leave heavier
inflictions. yeah, i
know it’s nearly one
hundred degrees outside, and
there’s girls in here wearing
long sleeved sweaters. they’re
hiding something more
sinister, something
that can’t be measured in
kilos.

you

he asked what I wanted to do. I said
write poetry
or
die.
he said
they were the same.