when i looked where they told me to search,
I found so many clues, all pointing the gun at you.
and the mission statement was worded decisively
so no one could escape the fate planned for me:
a hospital bed, within Greater Columbus.
a third floor view of the world I blamed on you
when they fed me their lies, out of their fucking vicious minds.
well, I’ve gotten passed that now.

but, in that bed, you slept, two weeks before I arrived.
you laid victim to my verbal attack, a week later you died.
they searched your body in the autopsy,
for any signs of foul play.
no wound, no bruised, no poison in the system,
boredom filled the examiner’s day.
he gave up on your cause, it must’ve missed him:
your death was lost somewhere within your head.

but the x-rays made the nurse begin to cry.
your body’s hollowed out from the inside.
and the tears she wept mingled with your hair.
something reignited, and those fears collided,
possibly a reaction with the air.
in a moment, you came to,
a cylinder of no volume,
and your heart began to race.

you’re up the hall, and out the door,
a cylinder of skin, making its way
sliding across the city’s floor.
and the freezer’s been left open
in the kitchen that we shared.
our living room is ridden
with some other girl’s hairs.

what will you do now, that you came to,
to return to the life that disemboweled you,
and found your place filled by a stranger,
sleeping in your bed, beside your man,
eagerly holding onto his hand
to make him happy,
to kill that infinite sadness?
her hair’s colored like the dirt
that they had dug up for your grave.
on a plot you’ll soon be begging them to save.

and her smiles worth a thousand words
a small picture framed by his tears.
he tried to cover it up.
but she wiped them off,
and they dried around the edges,
forming a rim
of magnificent
attractiveness .
you just don’t know what to make of this.
this is what you get for fucking an artist.