"You're not alone"
Am I supposed to take comfort in that?
I want to be isolated in my suffering.
I do not wish this on another.

There is evidence of gravity here,
it pushed me, against earth and ground and concrete.
I am living,
I am free,
within confines of society.
There is a blank space in my head of deep secrets,
darkest when I think of them;
beautiful.
I ****** him for money.
I'm a *****.
I am temporary.
I do not exist.
I'm wet when he ***** me.
That must mean I like it.
I zone out, I ******* like it. Give it to me. I'm ******* dripping wet.
Use me. Use me. Use me.
I'm psychotic.
I have images in my head, I am divine, I am God, I am empty, so empty.
I will **** myself.
Not because I'm sad, but because everyone who knows me knows I don't belong here.
I make a better memory than friend.

What is a eulogy?
A confession of memory--
An avoidance of the singular truth.
I'm whispering to ghosts with no ears like they do on Sundays, in stuffy confession booths.
Eulogies are for the living,
The ones he left behind--
For his mother and father and two older brothers,
and truths to answers that they'll never find.
Eulogies are for the living but he's taken me with him.

My aunt is a journalist on TV,
She conveys messages to millions of people.
She's been to Afghanistan and around the world;
Providing a voice to those with none.
She is successful, intelligent, kind.

My grandma and I sit down to watch her show this afternoon--
My grandma wants to know what my aunt is wearing,
She tells me "she looks fat"
I say nothing.
Because we're women.
How many people ignored her message about the Syrian refugees? How many people thought about her hair or her body instead?

I tried to reach out to someone about depression.
About how I want to die.
He talked about his life--
Then we had ***.

At your death I was a ghost,
lying next to your body, I tried not to choke.
The suffocation of words I didn't say left me tired and broke.
I wanted to lay in the morgue and
f
  a
    l
      l
asleep with you there,
next to your blue glass eyes and brown curly hair.

The parting gift you left for me-- a dialogue in my head,
your ghost screams at me at night, I’m never alone in my bed.
A chorus of morphine alarms and IV drips silence me; and they sing my songs for you instead.

I remember when the chemo failed,
your family asked the doctors "isn't there something you can do?"
they turned to me, like I was guilty,
and said "no, you're wrong, this can't be true".
"palliative care" "hospice" "comfortable" euphemisms fell from my mouth,
they tasted bitter like acid and lies--
I wanted to scream and cry and tear my heart out.

At night I lay in an empty bed,
and when I sleep I dream,
I wake up next to a body bag,
my mouth too terrified to scream.