𝘞 𝘏 𝘌 𝘕 𝘙 𝘈 𝘐 𝘕 𝘍 𝘈 𝘓 𝘓 𝘚

spaces for you and me//flowers for breakfast.

she says art is an after life.
she says don't be sad anymore.
she asks if i'm still sad.
if every poem i write is about her.
no, i say, because it never is.

she says this is okay.
she says you don't need to be depressed.
she asks if i have depression.
if maybe theres a reason
for the slick, inky sadness in my words.
if maybe she eats them up like music
because art is only art to make pain go away.
the after life.

she asks why i never use her name.
i say i never write about real people.
she tells me to stay in bed.
we don't need food when we have each other.
the headache is from the sun,
she says,
you always get them.
i never get them.

my cheeks are sunken in and i'm always tired.
she asks if the people like her.
i say they don't.
she says art is an after life.
as if i will always feel the weight of her arm,
holding me down to the bed.
don't go!
she screams, like a banshee in my head.
like a beldam through a door.
she says art is an after life.
write about the dizziness.
write about the feeling of lightheadedness.
write about me,
she whispers.

and then she is gone.

— spaces for you and me.

- - -

in the mornings,
i eat flowers for breakfast and
they make me feel happy.
i am the only one awake.
it is five a.m.
i dunk the flowers in sweet honey,
licking my fingers free of sticky daisy petals.
the cherry trees glow orange
as the sun rises through the blinds.
the kitchen's shiny marble floors gleam
and i smile wide.
i look at the paintings on the walls.
they are framed in golden frames,
with sad clowns frowning back at me.
two pieces of bread pop up
from the toaster, crispy brown.
how sweet it is,
i think,
to be in a house that was never yours.

— flowers for breakfast.