confession

i am an open book—and he does heroin my juvenile secrets are pale compared to his we are sitting backwards on the couch, playing a game of confession as if we are in the 8th grade

and instead, i wish we were playing spin the bottle.

this is a confession i have never made: we have matching scars on the back of our hands— but mine is from an accident in grade school and his, self-inflicted, warranted a 72-hour hospital stay— there’s something to be said about one of us being brave

today of all days, i wish i could say that i was surprised.

how can i sit in the waiting room like this? especially when the waiting room is actually just my stairwell and no one is coming to save me and no one was there to save him despite this, I still can’t grasp the finality of what has happened

dear god, please tell me this is a fucking prank.

in an instant i know what the phrase “deafening silence” means it is the hollow ring on the other side of the phone when the worst day of my life has fallen on a holiday weekend and everyone is too busy to pick up

i want to scream, but i can’t even cry.

i always knew the sky would fall tonight and every night from then on because when i found out, it was the fourth of July every fourth since, the vermilion and gold explosions make my heart ache— open skies have never made me feel so alone

being alone was what brought us together, wasn’t it?

your smile was a sea cliff, tempting me to dive in if i had, would it be any different? it must be a hell of a drug pulling you under, more than my arms around you as i carry you into bed and feel the breaking pulse at your neck

i think about that moment every day.

sometimes i think that the big mistake was letting you in that day we played confession because every day thereafter, the absence of your hollow heartbeat has been my penance