i do not want to remember you
as you are right now -
all sticks and stones
and broken bones,
a rough sketch of a person,
shaky lines as if the artist
was having a panic attack in the corner of a coffee shop.
tears fall onto the page and blur the lines
so i do not know where you stop
and the medicated beat of your heart begins.
you were a work of art,
a statue carved out of marble,
the universe took its time creating you
long hair like princess
but the strength of a warrior.
but as you lay in your bed,
diseases erasing you so aggressively
they tore a hole right through the page
and we cannot color you in as fast
as you are fading.
you are fragile,
a paper doll
turned into a sympathy card
i'm sorry for your loss.
i want a drought.
i want the rain to stop hitting the roof like incessant knocks of a jehovah's witness
("have you been saved?")
you are unwelcome here.
i want a drought
because i don't think that my veins, running like rivers, my heart, swelling like a cloud about to burst with rain,
can handle one more phone call in the middle of the night,
one more stifled sob in the shower of an empty house.
on the day of my uncle's funeral,
(they called it a 'celebration of life'
but i've never seen a celebration
where there were so many people crying)
i thought that he would show a sign that he was here.
but it rained all day
and the only thing that i could hear over the noise
was his children crying.
a month ago, tucked into a booth at an italian restaurant,
my mom got the call that they were taking her off the ventilator the next morning.
i had never experienced the feeling of the world continuing to spin
until my mom was crying, my dad was praying, and families all around us
ate their pasta and drank their iced tea and laughed
while our family was falling apart.
the next day, it rained and rained
and stephanie passed away, as simple as a plug pulled out from behind a hospital bed, and a hand going cold.
when my friend took me for a drive,
so i could get out of the empty house,
so i could stop feeling like my throat was constantly on the verge of closing,
so close to suffocating, but never there,
the rain hit the windshield
and on any other day, i would've found it calming,
but it was mocking me.
today, your body lays in your bed, your arms so stick-thin that i don't think i will ever forget the shape of your bones,
your hands are too cold for your mother to hold any longer,
and your heart finally gave in,
and it is raining.
in little intervals,
like just when i think i am out of tears,
they come again,
sure as the setting sun,
hidden behind gray clouds.
rain, rain, go away.
let me breathe.
let me grieve,
let my eyes dry,
and let me go.
she gives me advice
and tugs at the corner of her mouth
some drugstore excuse for a smile
when i squeeze my eyes shut
because the tv
is ruining my dreams
she says things
i know are not true
but i act like she knows
more than me
she is so much
happier than me
act as if she has gotten saved
and i am still learning to swim
when i know
that she is no longer drowning
she is stuck at the bottom
of the ocean
inhaling the seawater
pretending it is oxygen
and she can breathe
just aren't meant to fit
like jamming a puzzle piece into the wrong slot
and we exploded
and we burst
and then we started over
and all i do with you is /want/
i want you to like me
i want you to love me
i want you to kiss me
i want you to call me yours
i want you to come back
i want you to talk to me
i want you to say you're sorry
i want you to hug me
i want you to kiss me
nothing is enough for me
and maybe i'm too selfish but
how can you blame me
when i see your lips 10 months later
and i can still taste the chapstick you were wearing
the night you kissed me
My body is a palace.
And you snuck in, at 3 am,
a robber disguised as a martyr.
You upturned every table,
looked in all the places I showed you in secret,
touched every part of me,
but only left with the pieces
that made it impossible to pin the blame on you.