six (6)

he left 6 months ago, 

and he said he'd 

miss me, but I 

think the ink

grew dry

and so

did

his

heart

because 

it's been 6 

months and blank 

pages seem all too familiar.

I can't feel his touch on my skin anymore; my heart rate is

slowing and my chest

is failing to rise, 

and my throat

it is slowly

but surely

choking.

it's been 6

months

honey, 

and you probably 

should've bought

more ink.

that's all I'm asking

he told me it was harmless

he told me it was okay

he told me it wouldn't kill him 

he told me not to worry 

but I worried

and I worry

because tonight I found clear capsules and white powder

and last week I saw eye drops

and last month he tested negative

but I don't understand that little minus sign and he doesn't understand God anymore;

church is so foreign,

heaven forbid he remembers the day when his older brother sacrificed his life for him.

and sometimes he laughs at my belief and at my agony;

the pain is so sharp I think it makes the cuts in my heart a little deeper with every breath.

it's like that metal between his teeth and the girl under his lips are more important than the sister who held him when he was born 

and the mother who gave him butterfly kisses 

and the father who taught him to drive when he was only 6. 

we are eternity, she is temporary

and drugs kill eternity.

drugs kill eternity

drugs freaking kill eternity and my eyes, they are wet with anger and my head can only take so much 

so please god make him stop 

and please God make him better.

I promise I've tried,

my faith wasn't strong enough and frankly all of which I had for him is on the tail end.

he's drowning, I'm drowning

and everyone around us is still breathing;

so please God, please.

you were worth it

 this poem inspired me really hard core, but in a different way

thanks Jess.

you were worth my poetry,

you always were.

they wondered why but only I saw what was good in someone like you.

those brown eyes

yes, they've made headlines

but it was more than that;

it was the way you looked at me and the way I could look back and feel,

the way I could see clearer in your eyes and how reality could go away with just a simple gaze;

those dark eyelashes that I'd loved even before I loved you.

it was how your hands felt;

I didn't mind they felt tough. 

they were working hands and solid hands 

they were loyal hands;

hands that held mine and hands that pushed me away 

but they were still your hands,

and that was good enough for me.

it was your voice;

rough but mellow

stern but sweet.

it was kind and used only for good,

and I remember how at one time it was only for me. 

my ears, they rang

but the feeling of your lips brushing on my ear was worth the pain.

they don't see you as I do

and that's why they think I'm wasting my time typing and erasing and heart breaking

but babe,

they don't know you. 

you are worth my poetry,

you always will be.

still

it's always around 1:30am when it hits me the hardest;

sometimes it's the fact that tomorrow I will hate 7:30am but mostly that gut wrenching smell seeping through the walls.

it's in his clothes and in my bathroom and in my room; 

hell, I can't even use my favorite Chapstick anymore because the smell of it makes me physically ill.

I guess I should be thanking God that it's not green anymore, but it hurts just as bad.

my heart still aches and breaks and my eyes are watered down

but my lips, they quiver more

they frown more

and they taste bitter

bitter like cookie dough without sugar 

bitter like his eyes and his laugh when I ask him to stop

bitter like the strawberry flavored Chapstick that my nose inspects and my tongue rejects

bitter like a broken heart trying to remember when and where some pieces went missing. 

but honey 7:30am comes early tomorrow and my eyes are weak and

my head aches.

maybe tomorrow I'll try harder beat 1:30am

at least before then the picture of us 5 & 3 sitting on my windowsill 

is still precious

and that sweet little boy is still innocent.