Listen up. I'm old okay. I'm spent. I've been alive so goddamn long it feels like the only things I have holding me together are promises.
Hell yeah there are a lot of promises. There was that one when my boyfriend told me he loved me, held my hand, kissed me, promised he would never leave. One glimmering thread around my heart.
(He doesn't say a lot these days. There is dirt all the way down his throat, in his eyes. Sometimes when it's late at night I imagine what he must taste, the thick, blood red wine of years)
My sister once said she would always be with me. The golden sunlight surrounded us, lifting my lips and hitting my teeth and going through me like god, like the devil.
(My sister tried to stab me once. Tried to drown me another time. Poured vicious words down my throat by the handful, fingernails scrapping the back of my neck. She is not with me now.)
There are others, so many others. I hold tragedy in the palm of my hand and I stare at it in silence. It beats like a heart and my old, ancient nerves are lit on fire with fear.
I was full of something once. I met life when I was just a child and I kissed it long and hard and I believed that I loved it. I believed I liked the way it broke my bones and deepened my shadows
I convinced myself it did something other than take and take and take and take. I have enough bruises. I am cold and empty like a funeral home. I've stopped kissing life.
It looks at me with big, big eyes and laughs and laughs. We are all raindrops in hell and we will all evaporate.
It's quiet in the hallway of emptiness and god I wish I was on fire, at least then I would feel something, at least then maybe I could disappear.