he's drunk himself silly on the devil's most effective poison (called reality and lung-closing heartache) and in between the tears and confusion he's become some
semblance of a well-meaning hedonist —
it's no longer difficult for him to decide
whether to drive faster or eat slower or
die quicker because
it's all such a pleasurable affair now —
destiny simply dependent on whatever fate tastes
sweetest on his numb and null lips (romanticize death with me, baby, form for me a casket and graveyard out of shades of green and adjectives that make this beautiful)
it's enough to move an angel to tears—
watching little boy blue rip his bedroom and night shirts and love letters and psyche to shreds but
—heaven is for real, yes? he will settle
someday.
or maybe not because
the ribcage he buried his heart in has
splintered and sliced into a nothing
into a powder
into a fabrication
into a eulogy, into a pastor's consolidating good fight, only
it wasn't a fight — how could it
be a fight when he hadn't the will to
fight at all?
the mind is frightening. love is deathly. write something in memory of the people it has killed.
--
© Juanita A. (angelhour) 2016-2017; 2018-2020. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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