Fluorescent Weddings

I'm not about suicide. The stoic screech of words across the chalkboard in our beds. There's happiness in every vomit or orgasm. The stench of beer counting out loud. The levels on the elevator between then and now.

There's very little darkness in so much seeing what I have.

There's no dismantling the beauty to find its origins. No artist to praise for the creation. Just eyes all about. Rogue penises in a blizzard of men. Assuming they've earned what they've can't even afford to borrow.

In the curve of her blouse. Too cheap for her form. In the drape of her breasts. Little grins at the middle of her ribs. As her bra surrenders. In the footprints of her panties. Their hands. Like a war she's conceded she cannot win.

Uninterested in battles. Or the armies of strangers that sex proposes. It's only suicide if you let them know you. It's only suicide if you believe they're better than you.

The drama. The drunken polaroids. The weak venom of dying snakes. The drawers I left open. Fractions of clothes I couldn't wear.

In the spoil of her pants as she calculates the cost of independence.

As many reasons as she can find to die still she looks for one to live.

It's not suicide until you wish it had never happened. It's not sex until you wake up without them.

I'm not dying.

I'm not dying.

Not yet.

It's not suicide if your skin is still there after they've left.