Trigger warning: This post contains a moderate discussion of death/loss/depression and a brief mention of anorexia.
Last night, self, you dreamed he died,
Like your heart being scooped out.
You would say that you did not
Know pain before this moment,
But you and pain go way back—you sip sadness together like wine—
You light memories wrapped in old newspaper so the smoke will kill you,
You feel this one thing and no other.
You are misery, eating your tail.
One is dead, one isn’t, but what is the difference if you wake
Screaming or remembering,
Lies and possibilities,
What does it matter?
You could lose, at any moment, this cog in your clockwork heart,
And all the pieces would come
Do not tell.
If you keep your lips pressed shut,
The world might miss and forget to hurt you,
Like you forget,
When Ana says,
You are not allowed to love,
Because your hands are dirty and they break things.
Here is a secret, you must keep:
This you can want, but this you may not have.
Here is another:
This was never meant for you, this sorrow,
It was lent, not given.
Return it, lightly used.