I saw an old picture of your gravestone

“February 6th,1926- October 8th, 2002” they had written her history on a block of cement and next to it was yours

sitting without dates

becase they don’t know when you died

because a little boy and his mother found you

in your basement

a pile of hanging bones

where you used to raise parakeets.

I can still hear your voice on the big home phone

It was so slurred I couldn’t understand but I just kept saying 

“yes, mm hmm, yes”

Because I wanted you to love your granddaughter

When I was 8 years old, We visited you on our way to Disneyland

You asked me if I liked orange juice with pulp and I said yes 

Because I wanted you to love your granddaughter

Your street was hot and dry and I could feel every dust particle landing in my sinuses

You wrote backwards letters on signs to sell blocks of wood

You loved your birds

You also loved her

I bet you didn’t know

We had the same birthday.

When heard about what had happened 

I couldn’t sleep for weeks

When you decided to sever your existence early, my dad drove 4 hours to go through your basement.

Where you used to raise parakeets

He found a dead mouse

With its jaws wide open

He kept that mouse and named it Zachary

But whenever I see Zachary all I can think of is that poor little boy and his mother

And you

And your sack of bones

Hanging

And the way my dad must have felt

Going through your basement

I forgot about this because I want you to love your granddaughter 

I listen to songs that should be at the end of a movie

To trick my mind into feeling like a flower

And sometimes it works

But usually when I turn it off

I feel weirder/sadder/madder/crazier

Every now and then

You sink deeper

And I seemingly fall into this thrashing existence that is your depression

You don’t know what its like

to look in the mirror and genuinely hate yourself

Not just whats skin deep

but your mind

and the fact that you’re you.

I love the collection of bones and tendons

under your blue skin

And paths of veins

That make you scream

Because you’re so damn poetic

And you walk like an angel

Like you’ve done this all before

And you know exactly who you are

But i know when you get home

You cry yourself asleep too

And I’m sorry that an angel like yourself is up to that

You don’t deserve this

Ive been listening to songs from last summer

before I knew the folds of your brain

and how ugly the world is from a birds eye view