because this strategy of lighting myself on fire
to get your attention resulted in varying amounts
of burns all over my body. i theorized that maybe,
if you stared at the sun, then you would go blind
to my deformities. witches like me wouldn't have
to be burned at the stake for your comfort. maybe
instead of me, you would jump head first into the
fire and take a few polaroids of what hell looks like
for me and pin it up on your wall next to the picture
of us. make a collage of things that are dead and use
those few polaroids, and maybe you'll understand.

- kra

"flower cannonball" they called you, since your
stems wrapped itself tightly together like hands
intertwined or vines clinging onto a fence or even
my teacup mix's claws yanking onto my lace shirt.

they used the dumpster graveyard flowers to create
you. despite the vivid color scheme, the cannonballs
were nothing short of a beautiful disaster in my head.
let an apocalypse happen, i'm already rotting away
anyway from the mixture of screwdrivers and the
cannonball drinks. let me strain myself clear of hues
of blues and black you painted me with. let me sink
with these letters tucked underneath my ribcage as
my seatbelt for the death sentence. at first, i couldn't
understand why you were called a name like that.

now i am understanding love and loss's gravitational
pull and the release of that gravity. you were a beautiful
disaster, building castles on rubble and driving ferraris
on cracked streets filled in with tar. you were nothing
short of beautiful, nothing short of death being romantic,
and death is starting to look a lot like you now.

i don't even care if i die anymore.

- kra

somewhere, i heard that there's two days in your life
where you don't get to live twenty four hours, but isn't
that a little biased? what about the days where i had to
remind myself that you weren't coming back? because
i had recited a poem during grief and loss poetry, and
it was more loss of self and grief of self. maybe my body
is still connected to this earth, but my soul is dead. my
muse, or my idea of one, turned to ashes. every picture
of her was still life art, of things living, but that picture
of us is still dead even to this day. and on that note, i hope
you're happy now, you miserable *******.

- kra

the stars were flickering, the moon was dimming out,
the sky was falling, and the earth was trembling at the
pulpit of your existence. but it was just me and me alone
feeling the earth collapse under the hypertension and the
world spun on an axis, excluding me from it's original axis
and i wonder if i gave you the rings so the earth can spin
on your schedule. regardless, i want it back. i want back
the reigns so this off course journey can finally settle into
its regular habits. if i have to live under a god complex
in order to verify that nobody will come close to breaking
my spine the way you did, then so be it. i will forge a
dystopian mark on myself and completely obliterate
any memory of you from that dystopia. when the time
comes, when i put my hands down and yours goes up
in surrender, you will realize how human i am in the
way i stretched myself out so much just to be your
optimal choice. i will sit back down on my virtual
throne, mend the craters in my chest, and leave you
without your gas tank floating through space. i am
not yours to control, to play with my puppeteer strings,
to have me bottlenecked with these desperate pleas. i
am a different person now, please understand this.

- kra

the title best friends probably
doesn't mean anything
to you. - kra

when i think of you, i think of the saw movies
and how someone had to die to save another
person's life. i guess i was the martyr and you
were the last remaining survivor, miraculously
unharmed. i wonder if you ever thought about
being a martyr, but from the looks of it, i'm sure
you were more than happy with throwing me into
the line of fire than helping me escape this place.

- kra