Is it possible to spread your thoughts
on the floor
like a vague flower spreading across a tile world?
Is this what you were trying to do?
If I unfocus my ears, the screams issuing from my mouth
seem an eerie melody, dancing in tandem with tears.
Your ideas came rushing out of your mind
just as I arrived,
they seemed excited for the world to finally see them.
You though a metal barrel would help you survive.
Everything feels numb, everything is beautiful.
I accidentally fall on some dreams as I fall to your side,
crying (I don’t know why; here with you, I usually smile)
in a way that ***** swirling, shivering breaths out of this body-cage.
The growing halo of red reaches the fringe of my dress
black grows around the edges and I welcome sleep with a watery grin.



*
*
I don’t know why; you’re dead.
I burned the dress last week.
Grass is growing on your grave.
Your ideas never got farther than the kitchen floor
where you shot yourself.
We both died, we both suffered, you before and I after.
*
I don’t want to see you now.