Insensitive, they’d say, but its all too sentimental
Its my acerbic love that I screech and choke
all with a bullet lodged somewhere in my tongue to make it hard;
hard to tell you how it is, what it is, what it is that I need
that I need to hear.
And you’re discrediting everyone, everyone with cauliflower ears from the fight, the fight to dig themselves out to find the taste of blood and the promise of life again.
life as it was, promise me that, that you’re the same and we can pretend thats nothing changed because its always the kind thing to do.
And you’re not as upset, not as upset as you think you are.
Your body is alive but its your mind thats eaten itself whole, its dying and it likes it but please tell me that you,
And if you’re gone what am I to do?
Answer me but don’t talk about death that way, don’t make its haste, its prematurity into poetry.
When has it ever been pretty? Is it pretty?
Is it pretty to think of a rhythmic flock of black coats to resemble the ravens clawing at your eyes?
And were they beautiful? The flowers? The expensive ones that wasted a nothing fraction of a college fund?
They’ve withered into the earth where they belonged in the first place.
And what will I do when the soil is your home and yet you come out to visit me every so often just to watch me pity myself and you.
You don’t need to hold me up anymore, I’m strong now.
I’m strong now.
You’re sickness is mine and your hands are an arctic desert and it burns to hold you.
It stings to focus on the little things.
Its the little things that turn you grey when you’ve always been my favorite color.
I love you.
I love you anyhow.
I love you on those little blue and red capsules.
I love you when you’re alone and with a dozen names and faces I couldn’t know.
I love you when we haven’t spoken in months and I still laugh.
I still laugh like I’m still there.
Suck it up, Buttercup.
I’m still here.