he left a year ago for california
doused in glitter and champagne
with a guitar case stuffed with pictures of kurt cobain
and chords he never learned how to play.
he said he had to find himself
but now he's curled up sobbing on my living room floor
looking even more lost than he was before
counting ribs and track marks
at the wings glued to his back.
and there's a bouquet of rosebuds by his side
the petals diseased rustling crumbling
onto my bare feet
when he puts them in my lap.
"here's my soul," he says
voice bloody asphalt
eyes technicolor purple and melting
into the charcoal sliding down his cheeks.
dead petals gather in a pile on my knee
while i look past him, at his wings
at the rusted metal showing in streaks
as the faery dust veneer
falls in flakes around him.
"i got them on hollywood boulevard," he says,
when he sees me staring
giving a smile that punches my heart
like the thorn i'm pressing into my skin.
"seeing stars where i should've seen tears."
he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand
then reaches into his jeans pocket for a needle.
the last petal drops from the bouquet.