I left you on the bedside table,
Right beside a pack of un-smoked cigarettes.
Nothing too fancy
Or thought through.
Because you were just an idea never a plan;
But one thing led to another—
A strong drink chased pills, clutched in a stronger hand.
You were just a bunch of scribbles on crumpled paper.
Just a bunch of rushed words
That become evidence
And a witness to a crime committed by your writer.
Your ink is still wet when the police arrive—
And sticky with blood—
The scent of me alive,
and drenched in perfume and helplessness,
And your fragrance mixes in with the scent of devastation,
That floats about the room.
There’s a thick fog of– traumatization that cuts through those around you,
Like a scissors through paper;
The note is paper but cuts like a guillotine.
I left words on you that slit my wrists,
Just like this
Nothing, too fancy
Just a bunch of adjectives that described my disposition,
Mama presses you to her cheek like she would my palm
A palm that once held a pen with indecision,
Now torn up and cold.
I left you there and you left me here,
By the bedside table.
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