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Death Is Not Glamorous
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Three Swords
I tried to help you, you spit in my face. I didn't get it then,
but I get it now. You can never get back what you never gave.
You can't lose what you never had.
You shy away from open spaces. You can't stand familiar
faces. I felt so helpless, you felt so bad. Fistfuls of pills
you stole from your dad. All those evenings when I biked by
to wonder if you were still alive. Alone. A recluse.
Of course I was there. If I hadn't been, I couldn't stand myself.
But you just got thinner, into thin air. Where are you?
What's eating you?
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Like a vampire faced with daylight, you turned to smoke.
I swear I tried to break every mirror you couldn't see yourself in.
You cut your own throat with the fragments of their reflections.
The world hates you. I hate the world. The world that raped you.
So you might as well take three swords (your favorite spot).
Draw them from their sheathes of stone and drive them straight
into your heart, the same way you drove us apart. Because
with skin and bones, you're still a ghost. Behind facades,
you're just shadows.
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