Shotgun shell love, maybe that’s why
we’re always dying from it, maybe
that’s why the doctors say that they can’t
pick apart our shrapnel, maybe that’s
why it won’t be alright.
Sorry about the depressing poetry, sorry
that my chest is festering from open wounds
caused by middle-of-the-night emotions,
sorry my hands look a bit empty to you.
It’s because your fingers aren’t filling in all
my gaps so I’m just hoping the contractors
get here soon. We’re filling in each hole with
cement made of I love you so
you can see me easier.
Bottle of pills love, something you don’t
want but the doctors always talk about, it’s
what the teachers always try to be quiet
about, it’s the reason there’s an empty seat
in your history class.
Listen to me, okay? Listen to me. It’s gonna
be alright. Love, love, whatever, we keep
loving and sometimes it makes us die but
then we’re like spring, and you know how much
you love spring. You know how much you love
pointing to the blooming flowers and say
We are alive again, baby.
It’s because there’s so many emotions
I’m just trying to not explode all over you,
otherwise my father will dislike you a bit more
and your parents won’t be too happy with
the stains in your shirt. But I love you, I love
you and I love you and someone go load the
shotgun because you are going to destroy me,
darling, and I love you.