I wrote an apology to you.
I’ve been a bad friend.
I miss you.
My mother says an illness grows
in the heart like homesickness.
I worry I will never be home.
Look at me, see the longing deep in my retinas
to hurt stronger, to suffer deeper.
I should have died at eighteen.
I am too sad to sleep tonight.
I feel small, covers suffocate me.
I am the dot of an “i” in a long, long letter:
A mountain lake and a gray sky,
fallen flowers caressed our cool skin.
We worshiped the way the cold water burned.
I’m sorry I was a wretched influence.
It was my fault you got bad again.
I’m sorry I bled in front of you; I’m sorry I tried to die.
I want to tell you how much I love you,
but I’m scared it will sound too much like a goodbye.
I’m not ready yet, I hope you know that.
I let my pain spread like ink on a tear soaked page.
I won’t rope you into my mess again;
I am not the selfish child I once was.