Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Send Her To Me

Maybe death is in the air.

I wouldn’t know,

it’s not like it rides in on a horse,

these days.

I watched the news last night,

waiting in silence,

as walls close in,

on every dream destination,

that I thought I’d escape to.

I called my grandparents last night,

letting them know I cared,

like it was the last time,

like life’s really ending,

fires finding their way to every corner of my mind,

as I scan empty shelves,

wondering if the apocalypse could spare me a second,

to decide if I’m really done.

I watch the flag,

from a bench by the ashtrays,

outside your office,

red,

white,

blue,

dancing with the wind.

I think I might call you,

like it’s the end of the world,

see if you’ve stopped pretending like we can be friends,

but then I remember,

that you’ve been gone,

since last summer,

and the sobbing wound in my soul,

that I had convinced to stop crying,

is screaming again,

because I have never felt more alone,

and everyone around me feels infectious,

because I watch the news when I’m depressed,

just to feel anxious,

because,

fuck it,

that feels more productive than straight sadness.

I wrote a sapphic song about you,

and it felt like I was giving the last of you away,

so soon after I lost you,

but it was so beautiful,

that I couldn’t hide it anymore,

and I had this regret stuck in my throat,

as I sang,

wishing I’d dragged you to London,

that July.

Why am I thinking about you?

You didn’t have to tell them you loved me.

You could have just pretended we were friends.

Straight girls go to pride all the time,

right?

Angel,

I know you’re gone,

but this could be the last time,

because there’s this thing,

in the air,

death,

like when you left me,

and I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I feel like I can’t talk about you,

because it hurts me,

and it hurts him,

and you’re probably hurting somewhere in heaven,

with your hazel gaze,

glistening with tears,

but you’re stuck in my throat,

and I can’t breathe.

I cross the road,

like I don’t have a care in the world,

ignoring that I might like to see under some cars,

holding every urgent text,

from my heart,

close to my chest,

when I’m just thinking about death,

even though it isn’t destined for me,

because despite fifteen menthols a day,

and self destructive tendencies,

I am in tip top condition,

but hey,

the world is ending,

and I missed you,

for a moment.

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