my subtle heart is pounding
in a bell jar full of memoirs
as it falls from the heavy sky
- the last summer of stone

red was the blood, like blossoms in July
orange tinted lips, the ones that told me good bye
yellow was the stairwell, the last place you went
green was your text, the last text you sent
blue were your tears, shimmering like gold
purple was your face as your body lay cold
white were the lilies, for which you were named
white were the lilies, the ones I lay on your grave.

when I die
do not burn me
or bury me inside the ground
instead cover me in ink
and surround me with papers

- a poet never dies

it has always saddened me
how they compared themselves,
twisting and turning every
inch of their bodies
until emptiness became necessity,
and necessity became torture

because the desire to fit into a body
that society had shaped for them
had grown in their hearts
like a tsunami deep down
in the darkest waters

how many tears have I shed
trying to understand how
intense their pain must be
that they denied what we call life
because they felt they already had
too much of it inside them

with red cheeks
you hold the guns
like brushes in your hand
and in two silent seconds
you paint your brain on the wall

(and start to run)