Wyd
i swear
i'm not always like this,
sick in bed with giggles and the stomach flu,
sick with some delirious daydream of being crucified;
it repeats until the colors swim in my eyes,
the taste of metal stings my tongue—
my head is pounding hard and i can't remember if i'm real it's not easy to make it stop i'm Not good enough(???????)
i think it would be funny if i drowned in the pool
and you held my body—the only way you'd ever be that gentle with me.
limp limbs and clothes stuck to my skin
i'm never going to be beautiful or thin, or beautiful, or thin
your eyes don't roam so soon i'll be getting hit by a car in jean cut offs and a crop top.
i'll wear my worst shoes and i hope you wear your fourth best to my funeral.
i hope you stop by for a minute with your coffee still hot in your hand and your boyfriend in the car with the key in the ignition and rap or something blasting through the cold AC air, windows cracked open just enough for me too hear it in my coffin—i always knew he was a kind soul, the kind of man that could please you—
please, say you thought of me once in the past year, and if i'm lucky you typed and deleted a romantic love letter in messages ("Wyd") before i remember that you don't check your phone,
not for my sorry sake at least.
this is the kinda thing that makes me want to die.
what am i known for if not my drama?
