I’m not one to hold hands, but baby when you told me you wanted to die, I held your hand so tight that the bones in my wrist molded into one and the muscles in my arms seized so I’d never let go.
I’m not one to know pain, but the night you whispered “sorry” for every pill you took, I saw a darkness in your eyes that you didn’t want there.
I felt the walls of my skull caving in because I watched you drown yourself in sorrows you couldn’t suppress anymore.
I’m not one to know hurt, but every time you looked up at me with those bloodshot brown eyes I knew there was an earthquake annihilating the best parts of you.
I’m not one to feel depressed, but when the aftershock rattled your brain and that gun looked like the answer, for the first time I hated natural disasters. I used to think that nature taking the world back was beautiful, but she took you back and that was anything, but beautiful.
I’m not one to wear black, but when they held your funeral, it felt right to wear the color of the gun powder that was left around the ring of your lips.
I’m not one to cry, but baby,
when I was cleaning out your room I found a letter addressed to me, I opened it.
I didn’t expect you to apologize for the pain you were feeling,
I didn’t expect you to write about the empty pill bottles
…I didn’t expect you to write about how you loved me
I’m sorry I never got the chance to tell you,
I love you too
Maybe I could’ve saved you
“But poems are like dreams: in them you put what you don’t know you know.”
Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell by Marty McConnell leaving is not enough; you must stay gone. train your heart like a dog. change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. you lucky, lucky girl. you have an apartment just your size. a bathtub full of tea. a heart the size of Arizona, but not...