I set up a tattoo appointment for next Thursday.
That’s the only news with me.
I think I’ve been lonely since the day a morbidly familiar hospital bed
finally became vacant, musty sheets tangled
where you used to be.
With crimson and grief on their cheeks,
they all told me to find a pretty dress for the day
I’d see you scattered anticlimactically
into the depths of the earth.
That seems to be the same message I’ve been getting ever since:
chain yourself to your misfortune
and hope it looks good on you.