A thousand words unsaid all dangle on a thread like a noose above your head.
Remember the boy you caught crying by the stairs?
Caught him drenched in tears?
You didn’t say a word like, fuck it nobody cares,
but if only somebody knew that his insides were rotten…
maybe then he could have forgotten
bout the bullet in his chest now lying in his coffin.
and what the fuck was all that talk about a beautiful marriage?
What did you do when she told you about the miscarrage?
She hasn’t spoken in a week,
she’s softly sobbing at her feet,
doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat,
drowning in her pain like the water’s neck deep,
night and day by the apartment window,
thinking about her child and the impact of her body on the fucking concrete…
She throws on some composure, searching for some closure.
Straightening her complexion and tuning to fake affection
lying to her family like a U.S politician,
finding new addiction, searching for any-kind of connection
and every time she shoots up it’s like her child’s resurrection.