Dearest Sweetie,
what to say? Status updates,
performative sadness?
This permanent sadness
provides no updates,
our project is dead,
we are dead
but our love... OH! our love
lives on in the emptiest parts of space:
all of the space that composes my being.
I'm taking lots of pills,
started smoking again ...
it didn't last long.
My lungs just will not die,
despite my heart's pleas.
The doctor shook my hand
in an agreement:
I would inform him
should I decide
it's really the time.
Fortunately, most of the time,
I've no idea what time it is.
The characters here
would amuse you.
We've a famous rapper
with but a single fan
who carries her raggedy
stuffed bunny under her arm,
with raggedy bunny slippers
on her calloused bare feet.
He won't sign autographs,
mostly because he can't remember
his own name.
I can't hide my rationality,
broken as it is,
it spills out cracks
I've tried to seal,
but we all know
how water tight
band-aids are:
lights behind closed doors,
coming up through the floor,
everything drowns
in sunshine, in rain,
under my hands.
The language is,
as it always was,
unacceptable.
It is the language
of the unborn
laying dead in our dreams,
and our memories,
those we carry in our pockets
when we can afford pockets.
No matter how pleasant,
the words sting and bite,
stealing dignity like
dictionaries of Oliver Twists.
The summer sun plays forgiveness,
but offers it not to me:
instead showering its accusations
upon us all without regard
to our current sensitivities.
Things we'd forgotten,
things we'd willed away,
things we'd rather not say...
the sun is not concerned
with such petty constructs
as simple pleasantries.
So I burn red
with all of my love
left unsaid.
screaming at low volumes
