dear you’re dead.
i saw it happen,
the click-clack of the hammer as you cocked it back,
the fat tears rolling down your cheeks like pearls fresh from the oyster.

it looks so real sometimes.
i jumped when i saw you that morning,
pale and tired and violet-dark eyes,
but breathing. in and out.

it happened to my grandmother too:
i dreamt of wood cracking and limbs flailing
and woke to the sound of my mother screaming
into our bathroom floor.

today you smiled at me.
and i knew it was over.
the fire-hot dread rolled over my skin.
i took your hand and didn’t let it go.

i followed you home
and climbed through the window.
you dropped the red brass to the carpeted floor
with a muffled thud.

i held you down by the shoulders,
the fat tears rolling down my face like pink little pearls,
and I told you i need you i need you.
how badly? you asked.

i put my hand on your forehead,
and it’s sunrise,
and i lay my head on your chest.
you breathe in and out. in and out