writing is safer, somehow
because my pen cannot stutter like my lips do,
and words get stuck in throats,
not fingertips, can’t stumble
on paper trails of blue lines
because writing is definite and clear
and no one can tell if i am crying
through written words alone
You have a new message:
Kiss the kids goodbye from me
Keep well, keep strong, you know
I’m sure, but here’s to say I love you.
I lay these voice-prints
like a set of tracks, to stop
you getting lost among the tall trees
beneath the break-less canopy,
on the long slow walk you take
from here without me.
You read Vonnegut for the first time
when you’re sixteen years old, and
after that, every time you stab, slice, shoot,
every time you throw a match
into an open grave, you think,
so it goes.
It makes you feel good,
a little fuzzy, like
you’re unstuck, and you think, it’s okay
you’ll just be dead for a while.
Your father dies on a hospital floor.
Your brother bleeds onto your hand, his hair
in your mouth, pressed against your neck.
People die in your arms, people who leave
the battlefield behind, who don’t
wake up in bed five minutes
twenty years later and live.
People don’t just get to be dead
for a while. This isn’t fucking Tralfamadore.
So it does not fucking go.
Vonnegut tells you that time
is pearls on a string.
Every moment has already been and will
always be. You say, “Fuck that.”
You cut the string.
Pearls before swine.
Your headstone will read It was ugly
from beginning to end,
and it hurt like hell every second.
Vonnegut dies when you’re twenty-eight.
He falls down the stairs.
So it goes.
There is no such thing
as an honorable death.
i tried to write about your eyes
but i ran out of cliches
i tried to say you plainly
but there wasn’t enough truth
whoever invented this language
didn’t anticipate you
『25 Lives』 by Tongari (ಌ)