You Never Asked

I was

always here

but never used

stuffed in your corner

collecting dust

as an afterthought.

I became a convenient illusion

over a viable solution.

You always said,

“Maybe tomorrow,”

but not once did you reach for me—

Never asking to shield the rain

under faded skies

or to cover your pale and weakened skin

from the scorching sun.

Why?

You preferred getting wet

over asking for help

and eventually, they found you

face down

having suffocated in your tears and sweat

retching up half-chewed pills

and enough cocktails to down a steer.

Your body glistened in the rain

under neon lights—

A cobblestone grave,

and a pond of puke curbside.

Pixie dust still clinging to nostrils

fresh enough to sniff again

if you were still alive.

I was

always here

but never used,

and you never asked for an umbrella

so instead you drowned.