Wind

Woop woop :)

It's Monday. I go to visit her today.

The wind is like a tempest, never calms and god knows how or who started it. Maybe Cari or Adrian, or those uptight boys who always had a screw loose. Two weeks ago, Adrian hit up Cari and got punched in the face. On the same day, the tempests or gods or my own personal angel crashed down on me and stopped me stopping suicide. Angels are like devils. Devils who control when the winds stop.

My angel never lowered his arm, not yet, and never will. I deserve it, too.

"Dude, what's up with Jackson?" the person next to me asks.

"He got screwed over last night at Cari's," I say.

I'm sitting—crammed into a public train packed with sweaters and joggers and actors and losers and laughers and myself. I don't know what type of person I am. Maybe a loser. A depressed loser.

The train stops, people waddle out with me at the end. Somebody pushes my back, and I fall out onto the concrete. Some chick laughs. I laugh. I laugh because it's funny I fell and everyone deserves to join in on the entertainment. Think about it: I'm on Broadway, my head the cement and my body a crumpled pile of horse crap next to it. Would you see that movie? I would.

I get up, straighten out my jacket, swing my bag over my head, and shuffle through it. I find a cassette, a parking ticket, sweaty gum, and my ID.

I walk over to the gates, show the ID, and slip inside. Once I'm in, I go past the mall and the park and the toilets, back behind the park to a cemetery.

She told me to stop following her. I think the tempest keeps pushing me towards her.

I scan the gravestones until I come to her father's name. Then her's, her beautiful name carved in marble that'll shatter when the world ends. I want to be buried right next to her, but my name begins with an A. She's a T.

I tell her what I tell her every time I visit: "It's about to rain." It's not going to rain today. The weatherman reported clear and deafening skies, skies that have no clouds and burn me alive and idiots tan in. She never tanned but she had so many freckles.

I told her I was gay the last time I visited. I think she sent another angel after me because I can't sleep at night.

Her father died in a car—she never drove again.

Above, skin burning sun.

I would've told her I loved her—maybe.

I wish none of this hadn't happened, the sickness and the slogginess, the mornings I went to her house and she was still sleeping and I thought she was dead.

I wish cancer was a demon, one with red eyes and blue skin. I wish she hadn't died in her sleep so I could've said something. I wish I didn't love her.