hierophantix

I like hot pink but wear all black
also unironically witchy

23 in Brooklyn, NY

10 February 2014

"Well, you’ve been dead 5 years now."
Aloud,
I said this.
Alone,
also.
Sarcastically,
too.
Congratulatory,
almost.
Snarky, my mom would call it.
Snarky tone, snarky attitude.
You always loved it.

I fail to keep you zoetic, but
I envisage our palaver.
That gap-toothed grin
would emerge
through your lips
that I only just fucking remember,
as I would tell you,
smirking,
“it’s pretty embarrassing to die in a dorm room.”
And you’d agree.
And you’d laugh.
We’d laugh.

I fail to keep you cadaverous,
though.
Because I’ve hugged you, and
cognizant,
not dreaming, not woolgathering,
not crazy,
maybe crazy,
you’ve hugged me back.

The miscarriage:
on the floor of my closet,
sobbing for my mom.
Dismounting at splitsville:
on the bathroom floor,
sleeping pills,
sobbing for myself.
More recently,
Revealing to an ex I had slept with his
oldest friend,
“best friend,”
this time in my bed,
sobbing for everyone.
And that entire summer:
two thousand and nine,
92 days sprawled across my bedroom floor,
sobbing for you.

There’s
almost
no point in expounding
that I wept into an old shirt
of yours,
that your mother had bestowed me,
Amid each of these instances.
Blood, tears, mascara, vomit,
covering an item so inestimable that I had vowed,
painstakingly,
never
to even
touch it.

I forget your eyes but even in death
you can’t fool me.
Fuck the shirt.
And the fabricated tête-à-têtes.
You hugged me every time.

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