Sylvia Asked Me About Tuesday

                                                             I wanted to write my own death-

                                                  not commit myself to my own murder

                      There was nothing committal about it

  I was happy to write and rewrite the 1000 ways I could die

 

Where the light didn't hit told us more about our deaths

                                                   than any story told in full view of the audience.

   Hair light made us real - made us stand out

But hair light doesn't hit our faces or light our eyes or fill us with images we know people for

 

She let the pills hit the floor and shattered the illusion of silence I had created for myself

I was a burden in life, I might as well be a burden in death too.

 

                             Let the pills fill up the vacuum for weeks to come

                            Let them find my hair in the light

                           Let them rewrite this scene to make people feel something

 

You tell me Nobody gets you

And whisper it a dozen times in a row till you land the delivery

 

I'm glad you're as good of an actor as you are

because my performance is shit as of late,

                                             So I'll rewrite your last line till we both agree it's done,

                                                                                                              Till our death do us part