stick a post-it note on my head and stick me in a drawer as if you'll remember me in the morning. but you won't. not unless i cry, not unless i scream, not unless i throw my words against the walls until you hear the pulse, hear the beat of millions of phrases and definitions and images as wild as jungle throats and murdered lemons.
beautiful and tragic, gorgeous and oh, my word, isn't she a genius? but they all boil down to one thing: you're gone. you aren't here. your absence is everywhere. i've erased the ends of my fingertips because they look lonely; i've shoved my hands in the garbage disposal because that's all i am. it's not pathetic, it's just life. it's just realities [a million and two different versions of the same tragedy].
my thoughts are wild, unbridled and, let's face it, stupid. they're suicide jumping off the edge of my tongue. you aren't here to fence them in and the natives are restless. they're leaping brick and mortar and cliff and stone. you aren't here. if i repeat it enough, it'll eventually lose its meaning. if i say my own name enough times, maybe i'll lose myself in the process. who is this? who am i? what am i doing he--
burnt toast, scratched cds, dirty windows and rusted cars. i linger on each thought like a treasure, a gem, something to be polished and kept for safe keeping. screaming smoke alarms, papercuts, singing off key and chipped coffee mugs. they rise up the walls like oxygen, something i need, something out of reach. crooked teeth, chapped lips, stringy hair. come back, come back, come back.
they're you, they're me, they're spread eagle on the concrete and outlined with chalk. they're blue faced and pounding the aquarium walls. they're plastic-lipped has-beens stripping on the cracked silver screen. and we're in the front row, we're giving a standing ovation, we're ripping our throats apart with cheering.
death to the dead, death to the dying, death to the deserving.
we're deserving, we're dying, we're dead.