work in progress

It’s okay to cry: no
He tilted his skinny skates at 4pm: yes

(I sped glibly, it was thrumming slick-black except)
Do you remember, it’s been a month: no
It’s been 64 days and (I’m) counting until it’s my turn

(the gold flashing,)
glare at me paleface heave on that inky MASCara in wildlike jags burn it into your muscle and hair I swear it will help clutch me scream me wet my shoulder eyes

(which I now know means Pedestrian Has The Right Of Way, and)
It’s our burden to bite our wrists bloody, under, now, he’s,
free of that weight, it’s our gift to him—carrying it—his gift to us—this pain
I just keep on telling myself that.
this pain gnawing the sternum, big bites of lung and heartflesh pain.

It’s okay to not cry: no.

(I imagined)
He loved Jesus: I don’t know
He giggled in these crazy eyes, wobbled waif-thin on landing: I hope so
He was him, he was him, he was him:

and a large metal object sMASHes right into the side of the car!
and while she sleeps, the roof caves in rIGHT onto her!
and her foot sLIDES out and JERKS her into the abyss!
and the knife acciDENTally slips between her ribs!
and she is no more!

(There were new flowers)
I remember, it hurts. I remember you, it hurts. I say your name in my head when I floss, it hurts, I tell my friends about you, it hurts. Do you realize how hard it is to walk into Ballet Austin and wham-o! you’re dead, it hurts. Do you realize how hard it is to stand at the back barre in AVST and Ms. Hart walks by and wham-o! you’re dead, it hurts. I write your name at the top of my papers, it hurts. I pinch my stomach fat and revel in my guilt for living, it hurts, it hurts. I remember you every second, and when I don’t I fall into this despair, it hurts. I believe it takes the sole power of my remembering that keeps you alive in spirit, I know it isn’t, it hurts. I remember you, it hurts. It’s not about me, it hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts

(next to that old wooden pole.)



Isabella – 8/18/16

remembering Alexei.


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