A Blighted Banquet

I lost track of the weeks since I 

blocked your number, yet here I am,

checking my phone for the sixty-seventh

time today to see if you texted me. 

Why do the things we do for our own

well-being cause us the most anguish?

But here I am, burying another 

long-dead friendship.

I am an undertaker merely trying

to honor the flowers on each plot. 

If I killed one friendship, I killed another

And another and another and another.

Your aeipathy for vacant serotonin in 

Dead relationships borders on pathological.

You wear a noose masqued as a parure.

Why then, pray tell, do you hide

from your Sapphic desires?

As former resident of cis masculinity,

I can wholeheartedly say that all men are assholes.

In what manner are they worth the 

mourning, malaise, & melancholy?

Are they worth a decimated friendship?

Lovers’ heartbreak is a silly, 

foreseeable little thing, but

friends’ heartbreak is apocalyptic. 

Your sudden coldness unnerves my ennui, 

& I know enduring this friendship is like

feasting on moon seed & puffer fish,

but loving you feels like such a 

part of me, so deep inside me, 

that I wanna rip myself apart and scrape out the marrow of my 

bones so that you won’t be 

apart of me anymore. 

But how may I forsake our good will?

For, after all is said and done,

I am once again left with nothing. 

Was the readiness & plentifulness

of the catch truly worth the 

quality of the fish, the severity of its

tetrodotoxin blockading your diaphragm?