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.

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