Waiting is Nostalgic
I've seen the collage pinned to your arms
thighs stomach and wrists
Pictures you sent to yourself so you
could see what you'd carved with little
paper clips. This is how its always been,
pretty tainted with blood and I'm stuck in-
between sounding romantic about the ugly
lines drifting into our caged minds because
I've been the one wishing, pastel green
rumpled and staring at the column of
warnings disappointed death wasn't one
of them. I'm waiting to get that call, you
know the one. I daydream about how I'd
respond and I still don't hate myself
more than you hate yourself.
Slivers of glass from my phone screen
stuck in my big toe, bruised knees, sore
throat. I got a noise complaint from my
neighbor upstairs and isn't it ironic?
I'm allowed to swear and in the eulogy
I said **** at least 27 times and 27 was
our number. Was. You're still here.
But how many minutes will tick by?
The first time you counted out 62 pills
and downed them with kale ***** you
snuck from your parents stash in the
unfinished room they always said they'd
fix up someday. The second time: black
ice down the hill by the nature center, chevy
truck flipped, roof crunching down over—
concussion, sprained arm, bruises, health
conditions (heart), too many ambulance
rides and not enough $1000 bills. Specifics?
January 3rd 2018. Swing.
September 20th 2018. Pills spill.
December 7th, my phone is on,
Doctor Who theme song, David Tennant era.
I’m suppressing my anxiety around you,
can’t even whisper. Banter ‘bout death,
back and forth and back is the dot dot dot
at the end of each joke. I strummed 17
melodies we’d written together, you
struck the lyrics and I, the tune and we
named it Chocolate Blue after the candy
colored eyes of a boy I liked in tenth grade.
In The Book Thief, Liesel sees Rudy Steiner
die, I cried at 3am, characters evoke tears
more than real people because twelve
years ago I could only show anger, they
let me stay safe when reality crumpled,
crinkled eyes aren’t only for smiles. 584
pages blamed my personality according to him.
You revealed the abuse I hadn’t considered,
but you don’t see the abuse in that ********
of a house. ******** doesn’t cover the half
of it, but your favorite insult was from a book,
‘Jizz-gurgling fuckbuckets’. Beep. Beep. Beep.
December 8th, 2019. No sound but a flatline.
It’s how I imagined it. A call at 16:57pm. And
isn’t it peace? At least to you it is and maybe
I shouldn’t have fabricated reality. Maybe.
8121900 was your passcode, a collage I
chewed my lips to—delete, delete, save.
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 12:36 PM UTC
Waiting is Nostalgic
I've seen the collage pinned to your arms
thighs stomach and wrists
Pictures you sent to yourself so you
could see what you'd carved with little
paper clips. This is how its always been,
pretty tainted with blood and I'm stuck in-
between sounding romantic about the ugly
lines drifting into our caged minds because
I've been the one wishing, pastel green
rumpled and staring at the column of
warnings disappointed death wasn't one
of them. I'm waiting to get that call, you
know the one. I daydream about how I'd
respond and I still don't hate myself
more than you hate yourself.
Slivers of glass from my phone screen
stuck in my big toe, bruised knees, sore
throat. I got a noise complaint from my
neighbor upstairs and isn't it ironic?
I'm allowed to swear and in the eulogy
I said **** at least 27 times and 27 was
our number. Was. You're still here.
But how many minutes will tick by?
The first time you counted out 62 pills
and downed them with kale ***** you
snuck from your parents stash in the
unfinished room they always said they'd
fix up someday. The second time: black
ice down the hill by the nature center, chevy
truck flipped, roof crunching down over—
concussion, sprained arm, bruises, health
conditions (heart), too many ambulance
rides and not enough $1000 bills. Specifics?
January 3rd 2018. Swing.
September 20th 2018. Pills spill.
December 7th, my phone is on,
Doctor Who theme song, David Tennant era.
I’m suppressing my anxiety around you,
can’t even whisper. Banter ‘bout death,
back and forth and back is the dot dot dot
at the end of each joke. I strummed 17
melodies we’d written together, you
struck the lyrics and I, the tune and we
named it Chocolate Blue after the candy
colored eyes of a boy I liked in tenth grade.
In The Book Thief, Liesel sees Rudy Steiner
die, I cried at 3am, characters evoke tears
more than real people because twelve
years ago I could only show anger, they
let me stay safe when reality crumpled,
crinkled eyes aren’t only for smiles. 584
pages blamed my personality according to him.
You revealed the abuse I hadn’t considered,
but you don’t see the abuse in that ********
of a house. ******** doesn’t cover the half
of it, but your favorite insult was from a book,
‘Jizz-gurgling fuckbuckets’. Beep. Beep. Beep.
December 8th, 2019. No sound but a flatline.
It’s how I imagined it. A call at 16:57pm. And
isn’t it peace? At least to you it is and maybe
I shouldn’t have fabricated reality. Maybe.
8121900 was your passcode, a collage I
chewed my lips to—delete, delete, save.