A Therapeutic Chain of Events

i.
I wanted to tell you
about the harmlessness
of inhaling bad days,
because the frost
is what kept you
so perfect.

Someone should murder you
with marionette lullabies,
cutting your eardrums
with copper fingers.

ii.
The ocean
seemed a little too violent,
but you were always
aching and empty.
Sometimes,
rowboats and oars
seemed a little more
like home.

You were watercolors
and desolation,
bleeding splinters.
I was too textured
for your clay fingers.

Forever wasn’t meant to last.

iii.
We looked for variations of happiness
to find the bottom of another glass.
Your lack-luster days
routinely tumble
into oblivion;
you were convinced
carousels and tethered horses
would make life a merry-go-round.

iv.
We were something and everything;
dandruff in a snow globe,
hyperventilating.
You wanted to fall in love,
desperate and pivoting
on Achilles heels,
as you wrote love letters to suicide.

I simply found a way
to make you the victim,
as I traipsed into a downward spiral.

v.
Sometimes we lied
about habits and withdrawal,
just to end up
isolated and labelled.
You were nicotine and mint gum
to my vodka and high heels.

It began with self-deprecation
and ended with broken
singsonged versions
of friendship.

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