sometimes, late at night, i close my eyes . . . thinking that finally, sleep will come
and i can still see you
as vividly as you were that night, lying there
with your eyes half closed
i can hear your laboured, apnatic breathing . . . so loudly you snore
the smell of death, emanating from your pores
your breath . . .
and i think to my self, how can this be
i know that i will never understand how an emerging butterfly, outgrowing the womb of her coccoon
at once, young and wise, and foolish
how freedom beckoned you in her whispers, how her melodies became your swan song

sometimes, i see my self lying there and my jealousy enrages me, stabbing at the heart of the pain i feel, in the wake of the mess you left me with
in these moments, i feel punctured and torn
wishing i could just flay myself, searing and scorching, embedding the scars of what i could not know . . . the rage and the fire, unquenched
for what i must have needed to see
i had not known that THIS is the substance of things hoped for, that THIS is the evidence of things not seen . . . your resurrection, . . . mine
we all resurrect
we are all reborn

but sometimes
when i'm lying awake at night
and i can not sleep
i feel so . . . angry inside, such rage . . .
i want to take you in my arms and throttle you until you bleed
for that is rage . . . and that is what you have inspired
within me
rage is the substance of things spat upon, and the evidence pain not seen

did you know rage
i wish you could
i wish you could talk through your pain, and let it take you into rage
it's not so scary, not like people say
i wish i could have showed you




i don't wish that you were still alive because i know that that is not what you wanted
i wish you . . . freedom, and i wish you peace
and i also wish you some of what you left me with
not that it's much, but

i think that you deserve to have to carry some of it too