You know,
I think
a lack of words
is worth a thousand.
(So,
worth a picture at least.
Maybe even two.)
Just
AHEM
a simple refusal to look up
AHEM
at me
(at me!
at ME!
Don’t you know me?
Haven’t we
burned our fingers together
with hot glue?
Cut our feet on the
stones in the stream?
Suffered through
middle school when we
were both as ugly
as I still am?
Do you recognize me still?
Because I hardly
recognize you.
You look like a
revenant of my friend,
my friend, my friend,
oh wow, oh wow,
my best friend’s dead.
She must be:
the frog-catching queen
does not descend to wear eyeshadow.
Don’t you know me?)
a little cough,
a raise of the eyebrows,
a lack of words—
a lack of words
when I so clearly see
you boiling over in adjectives
at the sight of anyone
anyone!
else—
oughtta be more meaningful than a
Van Gogh
to me.
But I can’t look at you
closely enough
to prove it—
Mommy, is Santa Claus real?—
oh, your
smashed-together face is
frightening me.
(My friend, my friend,
oh wow, oh wow,
my friend, my friend,
my best friend’s dead;
here’s her corpse—
no, listen to me!—
here’s her skin.
Why, don’t you see?)
I go cynical
and hate myself
and think:
oh of course she hates me
I hate me too.
I go philosophical
and mutter to the wind
walking home with
my patchy backpack lollygagging behind:
she taught me a lesson,
she taught me
never, ever depend
on another person
for your spinal cord,
because you have your own
even though yours is
made entirely of vertebrae
and no guts whatsoever.
I go self-pitying:
how could she do this to me
the nerve of her
I don’t deserve this
rough sort of treatment.
And then, by turns,
I go insane.
(I’m not insane;
I just have to say so or I’ll look it.
She’s dead, really.
She’s dead, I assure you!
Look closer!)
But
AHEM! AHEM!
Listen to me!
help me!
hold me!
please!
my best friend’s dead!
my best friend’s dead!
(And
you know,
I think
you’re wearing me down.)