Saturday, July 21, 2012

widow poem 1

silver sun in a
bone-white sky, which makes it
easy to confuse living
with being alive

helps the pills go down easier,
but the hands are still cold

the suicides refuse
to give up their beliefs

won’t laugh, won’t cry,
won’t give me any reasons
for what they’ve done

just stand their bleeding
onto all of my poems

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