confession,
there is a campfire
lit by my brother
and put out by his death
like a shoe pressed down
on an ant
nibbling on a brownie
at a picnic.
i am going to die. this is a truth.
Someday
the round tubes coming out of my body
will vanish
and my veins will speak
a language I have known
since I was a 12-year-old
standing in a waiting room
with a white lab coat
delivering blue news
to a family of glaciers,
slowly melting.
the floor tiles were gray
like the world when you spin really fast
the colors and shapes
mold together
get confused
give up
and become lungs
after smoke or drugs or disease decides to rot them
and oxygen no longer finds a home in them
like I no longer found a home in my body
when my brother snorted up my powdered love
and pieces of my innocence beat away
like the wings of geese flying south for a winter
so snowy and crisp that my warmth
got buried alive
and my emotions grew so quiet
that now I must scamper through
the shallow waters of my mind
with a headlamp
and burnt toast knees
to see if feelings are still there
somewhere
anywhere
are there flowers?
i want a stick instead.
let me poke through my sweater and into my skin,
tuck tightly into a box with beautiful ribbons
and tease you.
open it up again,
I dare you.
fold a flood, neatly,
stuff it into a drawer,
and see how long it takes until you’re
swimming
floating
drowning
dying.
(just like me)