at the crime scene of my anger,
there is a chalk outline
of our bodies lying side by side.
they copied that blank expression on your face.
I don't remember fitting in those frames.
forgiveness can wash away the evidence,
but it will still rub salt in our wounds.

I'll try to tell you I'm happy for you.
I'll try not to mention that I woke up on fire
and mistook it for the sun coming back.
I'll try not to mention that the light
was at the beginning of this tunnel.
I'll try not to mention the calendar I kept
where every yesterday was crossed off,
and I'll try not to mention how I always knew
we wouldn't make it to today.

there is an unmarked box now,
and every day that follows is empty,
but it wasn't the end
of the world—
just mine.

I had been counting up to 10 until today
when I finally opened my eyes
and saw you hiding in between
the numbers that led to this moment.

when it was your turn,
you counted backwards from 10.
you kept your eyes open.
I thought you didn't understand the rules,
but when you reached zero,
you looked at me and said,
"ready or not, here I go."

you don't search for me
in everyone you meet
because if you found me in someone,
you would abandon them too.

you wanted the universe,
so I started building the sky for you.
I hung up lights so when the dark arrived,
you had glimmers of hope
—one for every time you thought
it was living with you
instead of just visiting.
I once brightened your nights,
but you tore the stars down
because the sun was here to replace them.

I chased clouds away so you wouldn't
be caught in a downpour.
I became a shelter when they sought
their revenge and hit the ground running.
the wind was breaking me down,
but I held you despite the pieces it stole.
when the storm passed,
all you saw was the rainbow,
and didn't notice I took out the blue.

I did everything I could,
but I could not do everything.
you wanted the universe,
but I could only give you the world.

I don't ask if it's over
because I don't want it to be,
but I had to think about asking
so it already is.

I am standing at a funeral
reading my depression's suicide note
in front of a crowd that is smiling.
it does not feel right.

this is my own death.
this procession is for me.
the person in the casket is dressed in guilt
—an outfit she grew out of long ago,
but still wore everywhere.
one hand is intertwined with pills,
the other is still trying to find
something else to hold on to.

when the sky becomes overcast
and begins taunting me with rain,
I contemplate digging her back up.
there is a moment where
I want to resuscitate her.
I have never been able to survive
a storm without becoming a part of it.

I will not take shelter in that body again.
I will not wear her skin as a raincoat.
I remind myself that she is where
she always wanted to be,
and so am I.

the hardest part about knowing an addict
is knowing them.

there are only two explanations:
either you have made
a graveyard of your own body
and the addiction is living for you,
or you are still alive
and living for the addiction.

we paint this portrait with white out.
we place it in a frame too small
for the whole picture:
only half of your face shows.

hope less each time
until you are hopeless.