Her Last Room
She asked to keep the windows
open all night. With greeting
cards collapsing under dust,
cobwebs blanketing bouquets,
Lucy and Desi muted
on an eternal loop. The cold
didn’t scare her. The quiet did.
She wanted to hear the shrieking
cats, dogs barking back. Arguing
lovers, police sirens, helicopters
humming, first dates begging
for kisses, sorority girls wobbling
home, the drunk guy announcing
he’s Jesus, the airplanes flying too low.
Where were they headed so late at night?
She wished she could go. She knew
she didn’t have much time.
This would be her last room.
blades (TW: suicide)
as I etch a pebble over cement
I stumble back into that night
purple and ash bracelet his wrists
smoke and blood tattoo his broken veins
from the fold of his elbow to the curve
of his nails blurred memories
of pressing his wounds, pounding his chest,
blowing life into his lungs waiting
for a trembling lip, a flickering lid, a gasping breath,
a voice whispering I want to live
I dug for an unsent letter hiding with unpaid bills,
a quivering message begging for an urgent call back.
How did I miss gazes out windows, meals untouched,
missed appointments, tear-soaked tissues tucked in pockets
did his pain cut so sharp he’d choose dirt and nothing
over coffee walks on Sunday mornings, three o’clock
bourbon on the beach, counting pigeons at the park,
confessing Friday night lies until we cry,
locking fingers while we sleep,
holding kisses until we drift into dreams.
How did I miss his nightmares and empty days,
his mind slipping from his grip
How did I miss
the blade hovering over his arm
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