i was 16 when
there was a shaking crying child
worry me to death in: one.
this is a barren scape of bedsheets, doonas–
as you call it– keratin strings on skin
your almond shaped luminescence shining,
whispers “since twelve” and sadness
i am sleeping with bones and barely human
“we’ll be back.
teach me what better is. too much distance
for a double bed.
shaking crying child
worry me to death in: two.
a couch in the corner. this is my lair i
drown out all my victims here
precipitate. a layer thin
on hooded sweatshirt and our resigning
you’re twenty now and i see
your empty boxes of antidepressants on
the ottoman in that barely furnished room, i sneer
because you can’t be broken when you let me in.
this is not a man this is unaged
worry me to death in: three.
drunk in my best friend’s apartment again
alderley welcomes you with your grease and
glamour. i want
comfort now. where is my comfort?
why won’t your mom like me? isnt your
family fine “my sister the golden child” like my
brother who’s too good at maths, older
siblings and their
i shouldn’t still be counting
worry me to death in: four.
introduce me to solitude and we shook hands beside you.
your porcelain bowl
ive always known
not kintsugi, no fixing
hey, i guess when you told me you’d like death to come
knocking on the door of that bardon bathroom with
the black and white tiles and the pink tub, slithered past your roommates
(i hope they still hate the block on nine, fucking architects)
and all the pins, the fabric scraps on the floor, he finds you
against the matching pink toilet, and the gold lustre leaves
the hazel of your iris, i spat GET OUT OF BED AND DO SOMETHING
but never loved you, no pats on backs, no chin ups this is the irony
this is the ironic part. you are a shaking crying child
but i’m almost as old as you were then now and frankly
so am i, look, i’m no better