The poems

It's ten years of grief
and a gun in my mouth,
the whispers in my ears
and the covers on our bed.

It's summer of twenty-thirteen
and there's snowflakes in the shower
they sing against my skin
and they sing of all the horrors.

It's winter of twenty-sixteen
i can only taste the sweet ghost
of a lover i have never had.
i've killed him in my sleep
and now the pillows are all bloody.

It's spring of twenty-nineteen
and i've spilled all of my sorrows
i hope by the summer of next year
there's chances for me to die or to recover.