I cannot say I like endings, because I have found -
a funeral’s more final than an “I’ll see you around”.
If you know they’re dead and gone then they are not just out of sight
and that’s easier to think around for insomnia at two at night.
I can’t see clearly anymore, my vision’s pained and blurry.
But I still see their faces in front of mine, they’re not even sorry.
My balance and my writing goes in the fog before a migraine
and my joints click into place as I stumble around in chronic pain.
The mirror does not reflect me. I do not know my face.
All I see is what I was made, even my skeleton laid out and flayed.
So let’s lay out the battered chessboard and tear my world apart by the seams
My voice has dried and there is no us and I without me and we.
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