I'm the kind of person
That waits until something is dead
To write about it
Those flowers?
They are vessels
Plucked from the earth far too early
Their beauty disintegrating
Watch me turn their wilting
Into something beautiful
It works with most pain
Even though my mother tells me I should write in color
I find myself writing about the boy
The one who was six feet under most days
Most days I find death
A sad poem
These days
I find death a poorly written poem
Something messy
And unpracticed
And inconvenient
Something you shouldn't aim to have
But I swear
There are some stars
In the universe
That want nothing more than to burn out
Nothing more than to be a martyr
That was never really my style
That was never really my gameplan
Even if sometimes
Walking out the front door
Feels something like walking off a fucking gangplank
Feels like pressing a loaded gun to my forehead
Like the tremor in his chest
The night he told me
He could not be saved
I don't love him anymore
He's given me months worth of poetry
To turn me into the kind of sad people like listening to
The kind of sad that feels like everybody else's
And for that
I find myself
Thanking the Boy
With the Broken Smile
