the cancer inside your eyes, the suicide inside mine.
(& i choke, i choke, i choke)

---

The memories shatter between my fingers, and I choke on every word I never voiced. ("Jade, Jade—are you there?")

His name feels like sweet acid sinking through my teeth, clawing like parasite at my stomach until all I can taste is that vomit piling up in my mouth, the tears leaking through my eyes and I'm holding the toilet seat up with shaky fingers trying not to scream. ("Jade, Jade—are you there?")

The words rush out my mouth before I know it (though), the pure agony raging through the air and my throat burns. The letters, they come out chewed up and washed out, black—like smoke from the cigarettes he use to love so much—and I told him they'd kill him someday, I guess addictions just aren't meant to be broken (because everyone has to die someday—isn't that right, ha-ha.)

No matter how many times I ask nobody ever answers, especially not him, not Jade—because the dead can't talk, they're not real, anymore, and it doesn't matter anymore—not now. I peal off the red rose petals from under my fingers, like squishing too many roses out in the garden (they were always Jade's favorite) and go to sleep on the bathroom floor, the pieces of shattered mirrors slicing through me, like always, and no, it doesn't hurt anymore, not the glass, never the glass. ("Jade, Jade—are you there?")

.

.

The morning will crawl over me like misery, its claws cutting me open, into my skin, into my soul (but it'll never find a heart, that's dead with him) and it'll just be another day not worth it. Hello suicide, will you please bring the gun to my head, until the bullet works?

an. experimental.