confession,

there is a campfire

lit by my brother

and put out by his death

like a shoe pressed down

on an ant

nibbling on a brownie

at a picnic.

i am going to die. this is a truth.

Someday

the round tubes coming out of my body

will vanish

and my veins will speak

a language I have known

since I was a 12-year-old

standing in a waiting room

with a white lab coat

delivering blue news

to a family of glaciers,

slowly melting.

the floor tiles were gray

like the world when you spin really fast

the colors and shapes

mold together

get confused

give up

and become lungs

after smoke or drugs or disease decides to rot them

and oxygen no longer finds a home in them

like I no longer found a home in my body

when my brother snorted up my powdered love

and pieces of my innocence beat away

like the wings of geese flying south for a winter

so snowy and crisp that my warmth

got buried alive

and my emotions grew so quiet

that now I must scamper through

the shallow waters of my mind

with a headlamp

and burnt toast knees

to see if feelings are still there

somewhere

anywhere

are there flowers?

i want a stick instead.

let me poke through my sweater and into my skin,

tuck tightly into a box with beautiful ribbons

and tease you.

open it up again,

I dare you.

fold a flood, neatly,

stuff it into a drawer,

and see how long it takes until you’re

swimming

                     floating

      drowning

                                 dying.

(just like me)