A Little Death


A lab report lays on the table, a chart with a name too familiar
                                   It’s a picture burned on the back of my eyelids, a friendly reminder of how much I managed to fail you this time, how much I grabbed at nothing only to be reminded that 
                                                                                                                             I am nothing. 
Call me a doctor, call me a saint, but I will never be anything 
than a man without direction and a dying best friend and too many 
                                                                                   pretty blue pills to be entirely functional. 
I know what these words mean, know what it is to have a terminal illness, what it is to have a degenerative brain disorder but 
                                                                                                               I don’t know 
                                                             to fix it
Study a protein strand. 
                                                      Cry. Study another. 
Cry.              Wipe your hand across the top of your eye and remind yourself that you wanted this- 
                                                                                                      this being late nights in a lab with relationships that can never last and a life that means more to you than your own waiting in a bed you’ve laid in more times than you can count. 
Look at me.                                                                                                                             Look only at me. 
                               I can fix this                                                   I can                                               save you please                             please believe me, I can
       I know these words don’t mean a thing to you, medical terms describing nothing but medicine and not                                                                                                                                                                                            the lives it can tear apart
but believe me when I beg you to look at me, to trust me, to cry on my shoulders because I can handle what you can’t. 
        I can fix this. 
                                                                               Trust me. 
                                 Except I’m only as strong as I pretend to be and lately my imagination is growing 
a doll laying forgotten on the side of the road, one eye 
                                                                                                               missing, hems torn. she’s falling apart. 
                                                                           i think she kind of looks like you. 
I had three dreams in a row last night, 
                                                                                           three dreams,                                                        three dreams,                                                three dreams.
In one you were dying, in one you were              already dead and                                                                    the other
             was a compilation of 
                                                             a little boy crying that his father is dying and there’s a clock that runs out of time and the father 
                                it’s strange, the little boy kind of looked a little
I don’t want to think about these things but lately it’s all starting to feel very much 
                                  out of my                                                                                                                                                                                                                control. 
                                                    I’m stuck between the dream I had before I remembered you and 
        the dream I had                         before I met you and 
I can’t tell if these are different
                                                           things or simply the things I can’t be bothered to 
Don’t tell anyone
I love you. 
                                                                                                           And a little death won’t stop the feeling, but it sure will 
put two fingertips to an open flame and tell the fire to 
                                                                                                                  breathe again. 


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