A blackhole opened in my dad's car,
close to where my brother napped.
It sucked me in right after the Austrian border
and asked: where does the guilt come from?
From remembering you're not well?
The star is dying.
I watched myself in the rearview mirror,
sunbeam face, empty wardrobe eyes.
A shell stuck between pepper dulse and wanting.
Will they miss me when I'm gone?
The calm in my marrow
spoke in muted bursts of fireworks.
I was born for explosions
and trying to be less.
YOU ARE READING
Blood Orange Periphery
PoetryMy suicide had been two years in the making when I decided not to follow through at the last minute. Over the past decade, I've written poems, books, short stories, fanfiction and hundreds of thousands of words, but nothing felt complete. This coll...
