A Letter To Death

Chapter 1


how is it that you do not yet think you have taken enough of my friends?
is it not irony enough that i have wanted to kiss your freezing lips as though i were a basorexic,
like i were the earth and you a thunderstorm;
is it not irony enough that i have wanted you ever since we flirted in the cold when i was four,
since i saw you in his parents' bedroom when i was ten years old?
i have loved you as i slept in a haze of sweat and swirling images and dehydration and overexposure
and i have loved you in my waking as the people swarmed around me and stole the air from my lungs,
and i have searched for you in the bottom of pill bottles and thirty feet above the ocean,
i have written you love poems at three in the morning with silver pens and shaking hands,
i have done everything in my power to find you,
and still you chase after the people who don't want you,
who don't love you like i do,
who don't want to be gone.

i have called to you like a mother calling to her child,
i have tossed rocks at your bedroom window late in the night,
i have offered myself up to you like the ground offering itself up to the rain,
i have pictured what life would look like after making you mine.
but instead, you planted flowers in the ribcages of people who had hopes and dreams,
and you wooed the people who had lives ahead of them,
and you married those who had the brightest futures that i have ever seen.
and you skipped over me like i was an infection, but not in the way that i remained untouched;
you have kissed anyone who ever meant anything to me and infected the ones you have not taken with the same thoughts as me.

one second he was alive, and the next he wasn't.
i can't help but wonder why you never even let me say goodbye.


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