Zeke at 3 a.m.

.


Zeke at 3 a.m.
by Serai



I'm no fucking good at this.
For a while, I think you were.
I remember lines too painful, scribbled
on the backs of crumpled TV Guides
or grease-stained pizza menus.
They only hinted at what you'd written, though,
on reams of rat-chewed paper, hidden
in back rooms behind blue glass walls.
Things you wanted to tell the world.
Things that might've saved us.
But instead you chewed yourself bloody,
burned by wires and mired in mud,
and wrote frantic bursts I later found
abandoned.
None of those words made sense.
But was that only because
I was reading them?
Would I have understood them from the inside?

None of that matters now.
You're gone and I'm here,
and blue isn't a color anymore.
It's just a knife I can't use
to kill anyone,
least of all myself.