Danielle died the day she found a reason to live.
She blew her brains out,
Covering the walls with memories of her future.
A red, stained glass image of a flawed plot line,
Plans, dreams, habits she would never form into reality.
Danielle was psychic, Or psychotic,
Depending on one's point of view.
She would tell me stories of the future,
And how she's seen it five thousand times.
An arresting daydream that left a bitter-sweet migraine behind.
The pain takes me away from my stress
But an aneurysm would be preferable.
Danielle loved to sing songs about novocaine and nicotine,
About how my existence was a wood chip under her toenail,
And kicking door frames had become a habit.
Still, she insisted we depart this life hand in hand,
Yin and yang, polar opposites.
A love so vain, blood would rush through my fingertips into hers.
Our love was a rose caught in a riptide.
A bear trap concealed in a bouquet.
I was the shotgun lips loaded with her empty shells.
She told me once,
The rest of our lives would be only her and I,
I had the only invitation to a party
I could never describe.
A letterbomb disguised as a California post card.
She made jail look like a jewelry store,
A hammer to nails look like a manicure.
To love her was to love the scales under my skin.
The fork in my tongue,
She was my favorite part of myself.
April came,
And the confetti landed on the floor,
The way ice dripped from branches
That sound a lot like bones when they break.
I am a captive of my own ribcage
She swallowed the only key to open my chest.
I turn to find her standing at the altar
Shrouded in a blanket of amber.
It’s over now.