the truth is that I have found that
grief greets me at every door,
hounds me closer than my own shadow.
this water flows (runs / spills) through wind / windowsills / this town
and i found i’ve made a habit of grieving in advance
of memorizing (romanticizing),
of building monuments in my mind
like a home video in reverse (a highlight reel)
press / pause / rewind
playback (twice, thrice), zoom in on the very last smile,
repeat, romanticize,
find meaning in the memory,
find salvation between the sorrow,
tie up this tragedy in twine.
if i turned everything they said was wrong with me
into poetry — would it make my mind hate itself
a little less?
