Six Feet Under


Alone among so many manicured lawns,
barbeques, cars, and picnic tables,
it's hard to explain how a Sunday
afternoon could dissolve like
a tiny blue pill washed down
with lemonade,
and taken with the intent of suffocating the familiar.
Maybe not forever,
but at least for a while.

Help me avoid the mirror in the downstairs hallway,
for you look familiar in the way that my reflection does;
I know it too well not to see the resemblance,
but sometimes I look away
because I'm afraid of the stranger I'll see there.

I search desperately for the wishes I buried in your bones:
pray to the first star, watch clocks for 11:11,
brush eyelashes off your cheek, and flip coins into fountains.
Reality has sunk in, just as prominently as my skin has grown pale.

I will not be getting my wishes back, so beautifully wasted on you.

The dirt under my nails complements the flowers growing from my ribs
and I hope when you see the hollow circles that engulf my eyes
it complements the infertile soil drowning your soul.

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