Jane

When I read Remains
of my dead best friend,
who gives me a home
with his books
but he doesn't know that,
no,
he's dead,
my heart mourns a piece
lost where the words cut
too deep
I am dead too, you see
but blind are they
as I give so warmly
where that comes from
for me too a mystery

A love selfless
I can imagine
but I can not believe
in its existence

Every time
I read Remains
every word a sting
of the cut of the knife of the word
and still
it's impossible
for me to believe in
I think for
every time
something alike
got close to me
it was like
I was handed over
a magic and restorative potion
and when I
wanted to sip
they
brutally slammed it
out of my hands
than I would watch
the fluid dripping off
the broken shards
and every time
I would try to
lick them clean
to try and get
a single drop
for at least
one of my wounds could heal
my soul got cut

So now I'm blisfully blunt
and the incisions in my body,
the cuts into my flesh
tell me
that if Jane
would be alive still
Charles
would have loved her less

MotherHustler