To: S.D., West Coast
Return address: V.M.J.T.
i don’t know how to begin,
but I know where it all starts.
it starts with me carving
gold stars on my wrists
and leaving tissues stained
with a beautiful shade of red
sopping over the metal kitchen sink,
glinting a hypnotic silver like
the blade in my trembling hands
…and that’s where it all was
simply supposed to have ended.
but apparently i’m still alive
and instead of wasting my blood
i’ll use the rusty ink to write
to you instead. so, how are you?
i miss the thought of losing you
and your silly uttered promises.
you said you’ll be the catalyst
to my raging cancer, but I’m still
crippled and weak from the fear.
you also told me you’d come to
separate my throat from my own
cold dead hands, but you’re still
missing and I’m still meaningless.
your lies are inebriating, darling.
you keep running circles in my
one-track mind 24/7, 365 days,
but I don’t think of you enough
or otherwise I wouldn’t have
proceeded with painting my
paper skin with rubious liquid
before shredding it to pieces
like any other filthy, disgusting
untoward abstract art deserves.
as my guts twist and untwist like
the grey earphone cords jammed
in my ears, blasting this fucking
world away with fake allegories
of a boulder hard lullaby melody,
and your voice screams the song
that i fell hard for. i’m fully aware
that you were singing it for bella,
not for me, and it’s so bittersweet
yet still I could not help myself
and a blossomed ironic quivering
smile collides against the pain—
fugacious, but for a moment
everything seemed quite normal
(but the moment of normalcy
was ruined by the knife biting
down distractedly on my flesh).
oh, your remedy and memory is
killing me slowly, worse than the
disease. we liked to run our blood
thin, but you divorced this addiction
and turned to singing, rivers calming
your tantrum storms, while I kept
relapsing to the blades that love to
feel, screaming in the showerhead
as scalding water pours and prepares
my temperature for inevitable hell.
i simply cannot help it, darling.
in this purgatory existence, there
are only momentary limbos of a
cumulonimbus paradise, before the
mocking angels snatch it away from
me, out of my reach; and make it rain
glass shards and wasteland debris
to maim my intravenous drugged veins
and they didn’t take you from me;
no, they goddamn dragged you halfway
around the fucking universe to keep
your gospel lips unattainable forever.
this ritual is only my blood sacrifice
to the merciless gods. understand that
this is only my way of returning you back
to the embrace of my lacerated arms that
You have yet to wrap yourself around in.
i’m so sorry this had to be the last resort.
i just want your company to burn me again.
i know that you won’t condone this blasphemy…
but you’re my heaven s.d., so don’t give me hell.
don’t let [REDACTED] go, don’t fucking throw [REDACTED] away.