if love was a suicide...

I’ve never answered the question
“How are you, today?” with, “I wish I was dead”


She speaks like a razor-bladed suicide
and holds her body like yesterday’s crucifixion
a perpetual victim against a perpetrator no one can see

Our conversations are as sweet as lemons
that leave me falling bitter
ears tuned to the whisper of the wind
in the hope it can refill them with the light
that always falls short of her lips

Coffee coated finger tips and a passive-aggressive rage
shopping bags on the side walk
she’s always telling me “doormat death”
with backhanded compliments
because she’s so proud
though I never quite measure up

Tall as giants squished beneath the rocks
of whiskey and wine
I’m not dancing in the rain tonight
because she never holds my hands
and lets the bullshit go
all her grudges nursed like the decaying corpses
of aborted babies she’s deluded herself into believing
are still alive
and will keep her warm at night  

She loves me like a suicide
with no warmth or delight
as though I’m an obligation she doesn’t have the courage
to rid herself of  
and there are days when I wonder
if she has ever really loved me at all

© Indie Adams 2014