Before you, I am so desperate to unmake myself, to pick away at my hair,
At my scabs and scars, to unravel slowly the things that make my bones,
To dig my hands into my hairline and slowly peel the skin away.
I’d apologize, but I’d rather split my arm open.
Maybe you could push me into the street.
But you, you occupy roughly the same amount of space in the universe as a black hole.
You blink against lights. You watch me tear my hair out.
You watch me through my grief and decide it’s easier to eat the stars. You watch me tear off heads and display them on the windowsill. You put them back where they belong.
While I swallow tears, kiss my mouth. Suck my love away.
Burn me away.
I have difficulty describing grief or anything that remotely resembles quieter emotions.