He shot himself in the head,
or he hung himself from a tree,
or he swallowed a whole bunch of pills.
Not that it matters much, after all, what’s done is done.
I can hear you praying each night (you think I’m asleep).
You never ask him why, rather, you ask him what the pills tasted like,
ask if he thought you should try them. I watch you try them.
You spit them back out, repulsed, saying they’re sour,
and the next night I hear you praying, quieter, yet, asking
what the bullet felt like in his head, in his chest or wherever he shot himself,
asking if it brought inner peace, if it brought solace or silence. He is silent.
The next morning your eyes
and the chasms beneath them search mine, scour the pupils, the lens, the iris,
thinking you will find answers since he provided none but
I have none— I’ve never been a good student.
I’ve never known the answer.
Whenever I was called on in class, I was always silent,
but I always had a doodle,
or scrap of a poem, the letters so close together
but so far from making sense,
like you, when you come home from your buddy’s,
your eyes red and weepy because you’ve hit the bowl again and you’re coming back down.
Somewhere between the melting windows and the flaming couch, you tell me you’ve dropped acid again
and I try to lay you down but you refuse because you will drown; the bed is an ocean, after all,
and you have no idea how to swim.
Written in imitation of Matthew Dickman's style, mostly identified by hinges. Feedback is great :)
