I sat on my back porch steps as I often do. Cigarette in my left hand, the emptiness of the world in my right hand. And I thought to myself that you might find that intriguing and just odd enough to laugh at. I thought of how this is exactly how we would be if you were here. Except the cigarette, you always told me they were bad for my health and I suppose you’re too young to know that if five minutes of killing yourself means your adolescent mind can have its try at grasping the world and clearing itself of the clutter that tends to pile up allowing you to, ironically, breathe, that you would take it every time.
But you’re not here. And you won’t be. And you won’t be.
So this cigarette will keep my company and I’ll count the stars until I run out of scars to compare them with and lie down in my bed with a head so mixed up I’ll try my hand at prose just to clear my mind of the clutter the cigarette only half-shoved away.
Doctors, Nurses, Heartbreak.
It was surgery as I could best recognize it. All my life, every pair of blue eyes that made their way into my existence, dressed up as doctors and nurses, waiting to soften me with beautiful, delicate words I could hold on to just so they could watch the words slide through my ears and slowly down, down, to stain against my rib bones so they could rip the words and feelings out before they dripped onto my heart. They carried degrees to show they were professionals, all in the shapes of hearts I presume they stole from another boy’s chest. I wanted out. My skin was already thick from constant scarring over. This only made them frustrated that I was so good at keeping them out. They peeled back my ribcage and began to read the stories there thick like blood against my bones. I watched their eyes turn a deeper colour blue. I was hoping it was remorse. They didn’t say a word though. They only took my heart and stitched me back up and sent me on my way.