i am so sorry
about your loss.
i am so sorry
about your heartache.
i am so sorry
about everything.
this is not how a romantic story is supposed to conclude.
i am so sorry
that the doctors couldn't save you.
i am so sorry
that the bed is empty.
i am so sorry
because you were the glue.
i am so sorry
because you were far too optimistic
your heart was too full
your spirit was too high
for everything not to fall
apart around us
in the way that only a death this sudden can -
ripping everything in its path
to shreds -
rippling like a wave
my father crying in an italian restaurant,
kneeling at the edge of the bed and praying
pretending that i do not hear
the crack in my father's voice,
or the shaking grip my mother has on my hand.
if god exists,
i think he's a sadist.

a house is not a home
a house is not a home
a house is not a home
a house is not a home until you paint the walls with your insides
a house is where you can count 63 creaks of the bed in the room to your left on a night you cannot get out of your own head
a home is where your skin mixes with the person below you until you cannot pull yourself apart without ripping yourself to shreds
and you probably definitely love him, you tell yourself, and you count 47 creaks of your bed
where is your head?
he breathes into your neck
and you look at his walls, painted with his insides, this is his home
where is your home?
you are vagabond, choosing to take bits of everyone else you have glued yourself to in order to keep yourself whole
you use their late night whispers to build a temporary home
but keep yourself far enough that you can sneak out the back door without the walls collapsing in on you
(that happens after you are gone)
does it hurt?
your wallpaper is made up of other people's insides
where did yours go?

there is a boy in a big jacket inhaling and exhaling smoke as if it is easier to breathe than air
i want to throw up at the smell, the taste in my nose holds the fatigue of chemotherapy and malignant cells and "it got bad so fast"
i used to think cigarettes were romantic and poetic
the only person i ever saw with nicotine lodged between their teeth had alcohol coursing through his veins that was not his
and i loved him so i loved that little pack of cigarettes he kept in his back pocket
i want to throw up at the smell, the taste in my nose

there is soil underneath my fingertips
from ripping up flowerbeds
because when i dyed my hair red
the color of roses tainted with metallic blood
for you
you told me that it looked prettier
in her garden
the color of my eyes
is sandy, ***** like my name on your lips
but her eyes look just like the ocean
that i am desperate to reach every time the tide is high
you make yourself known with shaking hands
and unstable heartbeats
and the floorboards howl with every step you take
and yet
every time you feel i am getting too close
you remind me you are
*just visiting

you have cuts all over your hands
from stealing paper moons
to give to him
and the tears are like salt in your wounds
because you said he was like a fire
and every moon you gave him he burnt to the ground
and no, it wasn't his fault, he can't help the way he lights you up
and leaves a trail of ashes behind him
and no not tonight not tonight not tonight
repeated like a mantra in your head
because every time the sun went down
there was a monster in your bed
he crawled up from your nightmares,
your father thought he had put him to rest
his words grip you tight like a rope
an anchor that held you at the bottom of the sea
but his words tasted so sweet
you thought he was keeping you afloat