in which i am digging my own grave

i wore my armor on the subway for you,

but the damned love still pierced through.

i put up my sword and by the time i remembered

how to fight the battle was over. oh well. gone and gone.

beautiful dirt i am shovelling over my shoulder, with its

creatures and flowers. shame i won’t be seeing it again.

shame i won’t be seeing you again. peeling you another orange

and watching the face you make when it’s sour. this never happened,

but i imagine it would have been romantic. you’re gone. i’m gone.

this is called getting even. i’m not very good at it. i’m not good at in betweens.

i tried to let love come to me and it bled me dry.

i tried to reach for you and i burned you to the ground.

i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry. i’m always on fire.

occupational hazard of being loveless and Girl and lost thing.

there’s no sequel here. we’re dead and we don’t go on.

they don’t want to see more of us. we never did manage

to find one another. it was more blind hands searching

in the dark: pressing against walls and windows,

desperate for roundness, desperate for flesh,

again and again finding only itself.

it’s a one-time thing. it’s a failed mission.

it happens. we weren’t the lucky ones.

but it’s nice that you’re here watching me

dig six feet down, with your moons for eyes.

i’d be alright if your face was the last sky i ever saw.