you remember his lips on yours, how they felt like tar and you knew he was something you did not want to stick to. the aftermath was like climbing out of a net while covered in honey, he told you, smiling, how sweet you were but you’re clenching your fists waiting for the bees. sting me here and here and here and here, cut off my hands so i never have to know what losing your child before it’s fourth birthday feels like.
when you were little, your mother used to read you bedtime stories about princes and dragons and lots of happy ever afters. but where is the ‘after’ when your best friend hates you? where is the ‘before?’
your therapist is reading you an eliot poem in hopes it’ll calm you down, in hopes you’ll replace memories of that boy with bob dylan and that couch with thoughts of empty fields. every time it comes into your head, bob won’t write songs about you and the field screams ‘i am not empty, i am open.’
call you Vada, accuse you of being in love with your teacher and killing your mother; the first thing you ever ruined on accident. you wish you were thomas j, you wish you were genetically pre dispositioned to crumble like a heart made of sand when a bee sticks himself into you.
your best friend won’t be your best friend anymore and you’re ripping pages out of the calendar and swallowing january whole, there’s more ways to die than to stay alive. suicides are their own language, the suicidal are like carpenters, they always ask ‘what tools’ instead of ‘why build’.
you’re begging to the god your best friend believes in to let you die young. every minute of the afterward feels like one more tally on his list of worst betrayals. satan is smiling because you’re playing the game he invented.
but what if the devil doesn’t know he’s the devil?
it started out with a crash and a blast and it ended in a mouthful of bees.