Wednesday, February 5, 2014

can't get her back from the grave.

In Borneo (I know, I know)
I shook so hard that
spoons dropped their
 cargo, hair escaped from
 rubber bands and my
 throat quivered out consonants.
In the pool (I know, I know)
I watched as she dove repeatedly,
 caught between praying, hoping,
 wishing and cursing, that I wouldn't
 lose anther person who wasn't even
 mine to grieve - yet I stood motionless.
In our bunk beds (I know, I know)
 I clasped the hand of my first love
 as my heart threatened to jump ship;
 it was the first time I'd told someone
 I was gay - she didn't take it well.
 Silence became hysteria, as
 she fought something
 neither of us were
 quite prepared for.
In the jungle (I know, I know)
 leeches feasted on our blood
 as I dreamt of my father,
 his hands (my hands) wrapped
tightly around my throat.
 I swore if he touched me again,
if she killed herself, I'd follow suit.
Home again, two years later,
I wonder if she even knows
how accustomed I have become to suicide -
it's not just your story to tell.
Based on the original poem by an old friend of mine.