Spoiler! :
He was drowning in a cold sweat,
the costume of his suit splotched wet brown like his entire body had been crying.
I held his hands,
large like a _____'s hands should be,
but his grip was fragile, shaky.
Through a fog of salt walter and funerary flower fumes,
we took a seat in a slick, pale pew.
I held him together, an egg deconstructed,
reconstructed vainly and spilling through the cracks
It had been enough for the time.
Weeks.
He left to be taken care of,
to start afresh in a pristine, protected little universe
where he could get his shit together with professional assistance.
It made a difference that I never had,
but my pride only hurt a little.
And we talked Bill Withers, and I talked Horns,
and he talked medications and old friends and wedding rings
worn on necklaces.
So it was fine for a while.
The days blur together, so I can't quiet remember beyond this week.
It was morning, then,
so his body must have been cold by the time I heard,
a forgotten cup of tea on my bedside, half-full,
bitter.
And what's worse, I knew it. I knew before she told me.
I could feel the absence, the pressure in my chest,
the panic,
and all I could think was
Hide.
You can't see it, so it can't see you.
But I had to see it, it had to see me.
When I got home, I didn't cry, not right away.
I listened to the Dead Weather album you bought me, ______,
for my birthday.
It's all I felt like hearing.
They keep telling me that it'll take time to heal.
Hell, I feel that I've been tending wounds for years now.
Maybe I don't want to heal
or at least expend the effort.
Like bleeding gums, a blue bruise to prod,
maybe I want the tenderness to stay,
so my body can feel human while what's inside me
crystallizes, gleams with copper plating.
_____, I'm fucking tired of funerals.
Gender:
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