I see her everywhere. In
my soup, hiding beneath
the spoon. In the TV, with
the actress who looks like
her. In my dreams, in
district 13 with a swapped
nationality. I got so scared in
my dream; you were touching
my shoulder and I wondered if
you remembered my texts but
you'd chosen to forgive.

Sometimes I want to send
her a message saying how
I'm sorry for everything I've
caused her and how, clichéd or
not, it's not her, not you,
but me who ruined it.

Do you dream of a life with
me? In those 4 and 1/2 years,
I'd never even seen you before,
but was I the subject of your
fantasies, unbeknownst to me?
Maybe I've caused you pain,
but I could not see a future with
you, just as I was blind to a
past with you. Ignorant.
I can't help but think
I've caused some eternal death
of your love, but at least you
had the guts to talk to me.
I wouldn't have, but, then again,
I didn't notice you. I didn't like you.
At all. Never.

So, to conclude the eulogy for
our chimeric heart, it was not you, but
me that had to ruin something
for the hopes of a peaceful future.
I'd I hadn't, where would I
be now? Six feet deep, I hope.
But then you'd think it's your fault
and I can't let you win like that.

I lay on my side in bed
with my hand pressed under
my ribs.

My heart beating reveals to me
my life could be taken in
the width of a breath or
the snap of an eye.

I don’t like that so many
things could happen and that
I wouldn’t know because I’d
be gone. All I think I’ve built,
gone; just like that.

I’m not afraid of death
but I am when it comes to me.

My body feels so burnt
from you and it. Two heats
ago, wildflower wildfires got
me through those arguments,
and I thank Lana every time I
listen to those flowers again.
I still have dreams of my
maternal saying she'll leave
by the end of the month, like rent,
and then I wake up, dripping tears
like an intravenous drip downwards.
One cry, one breath, and I smile like
she'd never leave. But the dreams
keep happening, except they may
now be real life, rather than imagination.

I want to leave deep in
my mind, but something
is holding me back. The
spring is holding me back.
It is stopping me from
moving on. Childhood is all
I know, and I don’t want to part.

I want to leave, bright and
clear, as clear as the spring.
As clear as my contrast to
William, with the winter. The
winter is the dying. And the
only difference between us
is I have unfortunately just begun.

Bursting at the seams
like a too full jar
of hatred maybe
for me or maybe
for you?

The orange is so sweet,
sweet it aches my teeth.
I don’t want orange from you,
I want red, and maybe black.

It annoys me that I have
succumbed to you
all these years

I should stand up,
but what if there’s
a weight on my lap
in the shape of you?
What do I do then?

Are the bones in your
closet so itchy?
So itchy you need relief?
Do you need a relief from them?

Come on and let them out,
they need fresh air.
They can’t survive forever
with stale air in the closet.

Does it make you happy
to constantly buy more
bones, to add to the irritation?
Is it your joyfulness condensed?

Maybe they’re something that
you like to show off all the time.
You think the only currency is
in the unnerve you receive from others.

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber ******* or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.