I’m taking this tantrum
to the street
parade these flaming wrists
like drunken prophecies
drunken prophecies
why aren’t these
the goddamn gospel
why aren’t these
the rash of unwilling luck
I roll in the rain
of sleepless
sleepless what
balconies that aren’t mine
red. the color of lips
my tongue his skin
when I’m done with it
the fall from here
wouldn’t hurt too bad
I’d fly like blackbirds
Tag: suicide
Obituary
I read my obituary in a dream
last night, sleeping on the carpet
to rid myself of his breath.
I must have carved too deep
into my own skin,
I told myself. Oops.
Haven’t had that problem in
half a lifetime. Something must’ve
sparked it back alive.
I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t
ethereal. I was heavy and dead
and still real. Just empty.
I read my obituary and it said
nothing of me. I was nothing
but a byline, not even a headline.
No one survived me. and I didn’t
survive.
