bye

because that's what you do
to the people you love–
you crush them between your clammy hands that you never let me hold,
you wiggle your fingers to sift through those pulverized remains so that only the big pieces are left
and then you pinch those too,
until everyone who loves you is dust,
I am dust, and I have been dust for too long.
while you were raised by one absolute coward and one absolute queen, I guess the coward pulled the bigger half of the wishbone or chose the longest straw because you are him through and through,
and I know that's the last thing you ever wanted to hear coming from the lips of someone who used to tell you how good you were at stringing up the skyline every morning.
you reduce me. I let you.
I hate that you spit into cups and leave them there. I hate that you point out things about my body that I can't change. I hate that you interrupt me, and that you always think you're right. I hate that you drink, and you drink, and you drink, and you drink, and you drink. I hate that you lie. I hate that you think the louder you speak, the more concrete the point you're making. I hate that I didn't get away from you sooner, that I let myself wade and eventually drown in your cold, gray waters.
today, holy boy, today your baby sister worships the ground you walk on. you are her every day miracle, her melanin jesus, you bless her equally as she blesses you. she'll find out someday that you are merely mortal, and you're not ready for that. i wasn't ready for that. but as religious as you are and as much as you compare yourself to God, you're not him.
i am so used up. like those bottles, like that jager and that uv and that slurricane and that hornitos and that jack, and that jack, and that jack, and that rum and that bourbon and that gin and that scotch and that whiskey and that vodka and that tequila, oh god that tequila, you have drunk me dry. you cannot grind, roll, and smoke all of your problems away– that just causes more problems.
I love you, holy boy. through all of these thoughts and these words, I would still hold up the moon and stars for you in order to be your one, only, unconditional point of affection. but I am not, and you don't know that I know that, but I do. I am one of many. I have nothing left of myself to
give to you. I am empty. I am empty.

This poem is about: 
Me

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