i don't remember how it felt yesterday,
with its empty windows and laughing winds,
lonely pedestals and creaking floors.

i don't remember what you said yesterday
when we whispered suicide to the earth
and prayed the stars might explode.

i don't remember what i did yesterday
when my eyes were pumping blood,
and i used a heart-shaped telescope
to see beyond today's hurricanes.

yesterday i lied. today i do too.
i remember everything yesterday
so i lose myself in tomorrow.

the people here do not stand
for the sky has fallen—

now, they crawl beneath
crumpled edifice and shattered glass
moaning trees and long-dead birdsong—

now, they crawl beneath their own skins
and try to remember
when they last saw the sun—

sometimes i think i'd like to run
away from this misfortune,
this molasses life,
this maybe someday you'll win—

but other times
i think i'd like to drown here
and suffocate under these dead dreams—

in this world -

juliet poisons the city
with the ashes of her ancestors
and burns romeo's bones.
the feud is ended because
no one is left to carry it on.

desdemona drowns iago
under the willow tree.
they say there's a nymph here,
one with madness in her bones,
and when iago stops breathing
desdemona does not leave.

ophelia, the nymph says.

juliet watches them,
floating in their shadows,
and holds out for a sunset
before she jumps.

(they tell stories of three nymphs
underneath a willow tree.
the nymphs do not mind
that no one remembers their names.)

the worst fate is not
fighting the monster
or killing the monster
or being the monster.
no, the worst fate is
loving him.

DEPRESSION NEVER HURTS AND
THAT'S WHAT SCARES ME -

THIS NOT FEELING ANYTHING
FEELS NUMB

AND MAYBE SOMEDAY
I'LL TELL YOU
HOW WE FIRST DIED