a hot shower might drown out the sound
of her screams, but it won’t drown you.
you tell her that you’d sooner march
straight down to hell than feed the liars in her soul.
through tears, she replies that even though they say
that lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice,
you get her every single time.

“I will give you rest,” I said. sometimes, you get impatient and you just want to hold some people longer than others.

“I will give you rest,” I said. she will be tanner there, the sun illuminating all of her perfections.

“I will give you rest,” I said. dreaming is just a preview of what is to come. my home is no place for nightmares. that’s what my brother is for.

“I will give you rest,” I said. I know that she is scared, but the other side is greater than anything she could ever imagine.

“I will give you rest,” I said. she is too precious for a world like this; too fragile. she is forever mine, and I have to take her.

“I will give you rest,” I said. it is time.

she gives in to the silence because it will be her home longer than the twelve year’s she’s spent chasing the sun.

“come to me,” he said. in this hospital ward, we are all plagued by the same fate. there he sits, writing us off one by one; a cancer in his own right.

“come to me,” he said. the doctors remind me that the bright lights are harsh on any skin tone, and mine is no exception.

“come to me,” he said. will it hurt? will it be like dreaming?

“come to me,” he said. you’ve already taken so many. why do I have to be one of them? why now?

“come to me,” he said. I don’t want to leave; I never want to leave. regardless, he will be the second cancer to take me.

“come to me,” he said. it was time.

I give in to the silence because it will be my home longer than the twelve year’s I’ve spent chasing the sun.

“fear thou not,” I whispered as she put on her makeup. she was just as beautiful without it, but she didn’t believe it.

“fear thou not,” I whispered as she slipped on the red dress. she decides that the red of the fabric will soak up the red of her blood and all will be well.

“fear thou not,” I said as her mother told her that she’d see her later. little did she know, this was the last time that she’d see her daughter’s bright fleeting eyes: wide open and sparkling against the summer sun.

“fear thou not, I bellowed as she climbed to the top of her apartment complex. as she admired the pretty Portland sunset, I thought, just for a moment, that she might change her mind.

“fear thou not,” I bellowed as she breathed in for the very last time. she must hear me. she has to hear me. why isn’t she listening?

“fear thou not,” I whispered into the wind as she fell into the infinite nothingness that would soon become her. I tried my best. heaven knows you can’t save them all. my right hand can’t hold her anymore.

“fear thou not,” he whispered as I put on my makeup so that I would look as pretty as I did the night that he first kissed me.

“fear thou not,” he whispered as I slipped on the red dress, to ensure that no one would be bothered with a costume change.

“fear thou not,” he said as I stumbled through the “I’ll see you later sweethearts” and the “we’re having pasta for dinners.”

“fear thou not,” he bellowed as I climbed to the top of our apartment complex. sunsets always were my favorite.

“fear thou not,” he bellowed as I breathed in for the very last time, taking in the smell of the flowers that were surrounding me. Portland was always pretty this time of year.

“fear thou not,” he whispered into the wind as I fell into the infinite nothingness. but I didn’t want his pity. his right hand can’t hold me anymore.

there’s a long list of boys that she will kiss
by the end of October, **** on her tongue
before you even learn their names.

It’s the color of her dress the day that you first met her
“I’m not bold enough to wear purple,” she said.

It’s the color of the smoke that comes out of your ears when her touch sets you on fire.

It’s the color of the sweatshirt she stole from you freshman year of college and never gave back.

It’s the faded color of the asphalt beneath your feet on 7th street where you proposed.

It’s the color of the dog that you share. You wanted to name him Ash, but she said that would be taking the easy way out.

It's the color of her matching bra and underwear set. Every woman deserves to have one in her favorite color.

It’s the color of the blanket that you wrapped around her when it was too cold in your bedroom.

It’s the color of her eyes if you look closely enough. Although they got this way because of old age, you still think that they are just rare enough to make her beautiful.

It’s the color of her hair as she is lowered into the ground: breathless and leaving you behind.

It’s the color of the cloud over your head when you wake up to an empty bed every morning and remember that she’s never coming home.

It’s the color of the sky when it spits at you, reminding you that life without her is as pointless as an umbrella when it’s too windy outside.

It’s not the color of your breath when you exhale for the last time. In that moment, you were yellow.