My Friend and Death
Death brings a constant summer for those breathing into lungs;
heart beating against chests.
Sparks of solar flare, rage inside those who have lost;
hold still and rage against the sky that holds nothing at all.
Only in time will the burns from this single bright sun fade into scars, peeling then itching, then all so suddenly, tender candy-glaze-scars over once smooth skin. Drape your tears over a coffin for me, or do not. Either way, I will not be around to care if they drip upon the box that sends me.
Oh, but you will seek hope for me, in spite of the emptiness you know to be true. Bury her in pearls! In riches! Make sure the body is not imposed with imperfection! As if I was perfect for any day that I walked this earth.
You often said it yourself, I am not perfect, and if I agree, what does it matter to you? No, I think you do not understand at all— the pulpy wet of your stinking negativity. The hopefulness for death to possess you, no —you possess only a mask that holds the bitter terror of losing such a little life. I must be honest now, one day you will die, and you will lose your cowardice, your hatred, callousness, and lunacy. What have you left, friend?
Lose it, the bestowed humanity that you spit on every waking moment, spit from your belly, your chest, dispose of your self-righteous onto my coffin because I promise your tears shall not poor for me. I never told you this but, she asked me once about gluttony, indulgence and I would not explain, no could not explain,
that you were the bind I was bid,
that you had to take everything away from me.
In bad taste, that's how they make people like me, in bad taste. A dash of lonesome and a spark of sunlight in that nerve that cuts my belly in half, searing me into two, neither of which you could ever learn to receive,
eyes rolling to the back of your head,
a quivering hmm leaving your lips.
You sipped me, closing your nose and crinkling your burnt face as I sank deeper, getting lost inside your guts until it was six feet too late.