I ran the tap until my pupils dilated
and my hands turned sunset red.
The lingering burn
a feeble attempt
to feel alive.
Wishing to be missed.
Even a little.
In my mind I’m still in the grass,
under that vast canopy of stars;
With your head on my shoulder,
and my heart in your hand.
They said you’d be a bird in my hand;
But it appears I’m a feline
at your feet.
One hand against your cheek,
I sucked the life right out.
Your soul felt heavy in my palm;
A grey mist
snaking its way through my pores;
into my heart.
Lying here bleeding through a half-arsed dressing
Hoping tomorrow I might get hit by a truck.
Who the hell are you meant to tell this shit to.
Who are you meant to call in the middle of the night when it all feels too much, and you know you’ll just need the same words of comfort tomorrow, too.
I’ll make another joke about it that you won’t read into.
And I’ll laugh as I bleed into my sheets, because I’m just that pathetic.
I’ll laugh at the notion that after it ends someone might think twice and learn a warning sign or two.
My family think I’ve been sober for two months.
This morning, I had rum in my coffee.
Because what do you do when you want to die,
but try to make it stop?
When I said I wanted more, I didn’t mean a concussion.
The black and blue handprints have faded.
And somehow I miss you.
You’re the dusky nothing
That fills my head;
You’re the lazy Sunday
That shares my bed;
You’re the end of the world;
But also the beginning?