The First Last Days


Those sad smiles under your eyes are turning purple.
I hit you with so much I guess.
Three days, is it?
The cat came to the bedroom door again. just looked at me
with some pissy face, and walked away. 

You're not expended yet; Wakening, opening a smile
so unlike the fooling eyes.
Your nose is santa red. You were up all night again
delivering me gifts.
Me, the poor child crying over have nots
and losses of what's left.
My tears were leftovers, like a receipt coming late,
from a horrible debt paid with life parts.
When they drill holes into your gut and your head
and charge you for the nothing they've left you with.

Do you see my shame, as you cry atop my tears.
Do you see me as this skinny bull.
Never mind that my horns have always bent back,
out of your way.
Strangers never know, when they see me center ring.
While I'm feeling like handfuls of spears
are sticking out of my chest.
A tattered red cape shredded in my wake.
(It's just his get well cards, too late). 

A skinny bull feeds off
the anger of others. So you, only you,
bring peace to the table.
You slew commotion and chaos and bade me lay down.
But sleep was and is my enemy.
Tell me to protect you, and I'll stay.
Never mind, never say, you're here for me.
And I'll pretend you're crying with me, not for me. 

Lies are not always bad.
Sometimes they're an extra blanket when we're cold.

I hide my thoughts behind you, as I rub your back.
I'm thinking of what kind of medal to award you.
But it's just to be breakfast, again.
Three bites, and I'm lighting a cigarette.
A glass of milk? Are you kidding me?
Then a vitamin the size of my lighter is
in your hand and you're convincing me
it will buy me health and well-being. 

I smash it with my teeth and let it
grind against the enamel.
"Those aren't chewables, babe".
But I bet you wrong,
because everything is chewable;
Anger and sadness and loss
and death. And afterlife
for those who haven't died.
Just get it all down.
Swallow everything, because the gut
burns everything you send it.
And you have to feel it every time.
I see your suffering, it drapes
below your eyes. I'm starving you.
You feed me your heart and your
kisses and hold me even as I
walk away with my distant stares,
and leave you there with my cold fingers.
I've many years left, but still today
I'm not back alive. 

Bulls hate red, because it reminds them
of what's inside. And it goes away
no matter how hard we fight.
Everything dies.
How many dents can faith take
before it's written off as a total loss?

Maybe in a way we travel a bit
with our loved ones, when they go.
Not beside them, but a little left behind.
We want to run up and hand them old pictures,
and pieces of themselves we saved for them.
-That chipped away and fell into ourselves.
With what is left, we try to resurrect
a likeness of them.
To carry so heavy until we can adjust
the weight alongside the other somethings
in our hearts and heads.
But I'm not that strong just yet. 

So thank you for being here, for me,
while I hate God and death and everything
that makes us never really ready for heaven.
I know I'm not good enough.
I know he wasn't good enough.
But I hope like hell anyway. 

You're the best of lovers
because you don't try to cling.
Not like the movers when
we change house; They're paid to care.
And maybe they mean well, but they dent the doorjams
and scratch everything...
You just bring it to the door and let me
put it all where it goes, when I'm ready. 

Yesterday was my first last days;
Last wishes and wills and vultures wanting
to pick his pockets, but he's down to bones.
And I sat there crying silently, signing over
all the absolutely nothing's left.
Until I had my enough, and sent
everyone scrambling through windows
and doorways. And everyone realized
skinny bulls are still goddamn bulls.
You stayed beside me, knowing I knew
which direction love comes. 

Thank you for not bringing my tears
into focus. I guess you knew I would.
I'm not ashamed to cry. I'm strong enough to cry.
It doesn't hurt, it doesn't help.
Tears are just an open window, when it's cold outside.
The kind you can't close without leaving the fireside. 

And unsaid; Maybe we won't know each other
when it's time to say our own goodbyes.
No tears, from our own dying eyes.
You were here, for my first last days with someone.
You made sure that I didn't drop
all of my pieces of me and memories of him.
You carried my heart for me,
because I would've surely smashed it,
to make it stop hurting.

And through it all, all I didn't think of, I remember now;
Your hand on my shoulder, and rubbing my back.
It made me breathe, because I would've forgot.
I felt you there, as I tried to leave with him,
nevermind that I couldn't go. 

I just wanted to hand him a few more things.
A picture of me and him, at least.
I know paper would burn in hell,
but I was no longer worried.

Written by Styxian
Author's Note
Tribute to the person I was with when my father died.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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