I wrote this at four AM this morning when sleep couldn't find me.
It's probably my favourite thing I've ever managed to write.
Mostly because it's true in a variety of ways.
And maybe a little bit hopeful. Maybe I'm getting better after all.
I can’t sleep, when my brain is not wrapped up in a web spun by green bitter liquid.
I’d take two or three doses at a time just to keep the monsters at bay.
No razor held in shaking palm, no fresh fractures in pale skin.
Pretending like I’m getting better, but rotting my insides away.
Where have the pills gone, that rip up my stomach lining and whisper angry words?
I took them in handfuls to erase a bad day or two.
Despite the lack of tears streaming down my face,
Constantly, I fail to remember to forget you.
Your eyes would crinkle up, syrup between laugh lines. You were a rare sort.
Bitter, though, like the liquid sloshing in aluminum can after can.
Yet so alive with a childishness,
You dabbled with magic and tried so hard with your dealt hand.
You had monsters, not unlike mine,
Monsters that would hover above your bed at night
They kept you from slumber,
They were waiting for you to close your eyes.
You took your medicine self-prescribed,
You took pills so the monsters would fade.
You left yourself in parts of me,
And I find more pieces every day.
I am made of burned up stars,
Brown eyes and your middle name,
Not to mention a sprinkle of magic,
That you've abandoned within my veins.
But I will take everything you left me with,
And I will make it my own.
I may be a single shooting star,
But I will not die alone.
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