Shallow

we’re going to die like this, every one of us:
our intestines spread on cold tables,
photographs of those places hidden even from ourselves,
our hearts no longer wet but shriveled like a tired apple.

your mother will write you a eulogy, she will spell “forgotten” wrong:
she will confuse herself, and pause, and when she stops, she will not cry,
but laugh.
everyone else, they will also laugh, and
you, being dead, and wise, will understand.

it doesn’t matter how you want your death to be, it will hurt:
if not for you, then those that watched and waited,
and those that cared,
and cried,
and hated.

for every passion that you felt when you were born,
those that stared through the windows in your life,
ideas you birthed and murdered and stole and loved,
for every kiss and every bite:
they will all see you at your very best,
opened on a table and innocent to the world.

and when silence comes to steal your name,
oh, it will hurt.

it was raining daisies so i thought of you the last time we spoke,
you with your head in your hands a cigarette between your fingers
telling me everything i ever wanted to hear.

that time with the dandelions, your mother and a coffin,
my father down below whispering seducing calls to the family.

you told him to shut up, we were standing firmly on the earth;
i stole your fag and burned a hole in the world:
whether the grass screams, we’ll never know.

okay, and that time in san francisco, your hair spiked green
and your eyes painted black (animal testing be damned),
writing poetry on the bathroom stalls while people yelled from outside.

oh, but if you don’t agree, that time in new york,
our words hushed by the snow that fell against my eyes,
yours hidden by mittens:

that time in new york, the only real thing your smoke
hiding the starlight with second hand murder:
you told me everything i had ever wanted to hear.

but just be quiet, this time.

the road stretches black like a timeline neverending:
you were saying something important
when i left you in los angeles.

every house made out of wood and rot,
shit between the beams.

driving through the silent streets,
staring into black windows, blinded by the moon:
your new rose-tinted glasses that glitter in the sun.

there are dark hearts hidden behind the veil of day,
so bright you can see the demons on the walkway:
you destroyed the desert for me.