the phoenix he helped create,
out of control boy without a dad,
shot the gun that woke me up in the morning,
while i drove into his driveway repeatedly calling.

your white shirt is now red
and the polaroids are drenched in butane

my sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel as if i let go i'd fall
my temples felt non existent
and i tensed up at the dinner table

death sat across from me, and my parents told me to love her
because she was part of the family
and she only visits at times

now you fly in peace,
i hope, my friend,
a man can't avoid what he's meant to do,
when he's meant to do it,
even if he doesn't really want to,