One More Conversation

had i never told you
	e x p l i c i t l y
that i wanted to be dead
	c o n t i n u o u s l y
throughout that year?

does my gratitude seem
	s u p e r f l u o u s
if my disorder was never
	too  d a n g e r o u s
despite my self-starvation?

it was not otherwise specified,
according to doctors certified,
but hey, they say i could’ve died.
and on that afternoon, i lied
when i said i didn’t know why,
why i was so fucking terrified— 

it was a vice to cope with
	my  e x i s t e n c e,
exactly like my excessive
	p e r s i s t e n c e
to find and bend your ear.

throughout that year i traded
	d e p e n d e n c i e s
to delay or distract me from
	my  t e n d e n c i e s
toward forbidden ideations.

at first i took great pains to hide
my punishment for rules defied:
superficial slashes sleeves belied.
but once i was dead enough inside
i cared not about any eyes outside:
was blood not better than suicide?

you once asked if you needed to have
	me   c o m m i t t e d,
and then one day i told you someone
	already  d i d  i t.
i think that’s when you disappeared.

i get it if your absence was self-
	p r e s e r v a t i o n,
and despite a decade you still
	have  h e s i t a t i o n 
to hold just one more conversation
			with me.




i guess you could say we’ve made it.
now it turns out i do have business
knowing where you wound up:
a state away, once again,
at another stage
of our lives.

and sometimes i wonder
if we’d ever have business
being in the same place again.
someone could invite you or me
here or there, or to some regional thing
that neither of us really wants to attend.

i’m your age now, or what you were,
when i told you something stupid,
and all you could ask was why.
but if i saw you again,
maybe i’d say, my
dear, i was sick.

wouldn’t that be a shitty answer?
imagine if i liked you
because i was sick.
no, that’s not why
i said that i liked you,
but it is why i was a shitty friend.

i know i made it awkward,
not for wanting to fuck you,
because i think we were still okay.
no, i know i made you uncomfortable
in an hour on a friday afternoon,
when i told you i was scared.

you could give a fuck,
but you couldn’t help me.
and you knew you couldn’t.
i think i knew that, too,
but i was so desperate.
oh dear, i was so sick.

it’s not an excuse, but i’m sorry.
i wish you could see me now.
when you last saw me,
i was on a thread:
but fragile.

so i wish I could tell you i’ve made it.
i imagine telling you i’m okay now,
with or after a drink,
in a bar or in a car,
if we ever have business
being in the same place again.




the piano is devastating,
and the lyrics heartbreaking,
but i feel seen.

i feel seen
at a time i wish i could see
those i haven’t seen
since they saw me
fight that fight
ten years ago.

and ten to the six is a million,
a million little pieces of my heart
that i instinctively want as art
on the arm i never thought
i’d cover.

i feel seen,
and for the first time,
maybe i don’t need to see
those old white lines
to know

that it was real.