I will die

laced with pastel

and breathing it too,

50’s, nonpareil-laced traces of what could have been more,

shoulda-coulda-woulda pounding as my heartbeat,

singing duets with the savage bones in my body

(bones I cannot change,

bones I never could have changed,

bones still in their sockets,

bones never broken).

 

I will shrivel into you, I know,

and when you sing my threnody

I will still be hiding there.

I will fill the space in your stomach

and you’ll never feel without me,

without anything.

You will never be hungry

again.

 

Pacify your anger, my dear.

There’s nothing to be mad about;

I know what I’ve said no to.

I know what opportunities I’ve hurled at sunsets

because there was a fire in my gut,

a fire I didn’t need.

It’s always already there, hanging in the sky.

 

There’s no empathy for you to feel, my love.

Kiss me one more time.

 

Now, listen.

Life isn’t meant to be resolved.

I know that now.