Untitleable

by spootasia tomoe

--

--

I wanted to write a poem about suicide

but all that occurred was that I’d get to

“Why do you do that?”

and would then be unable to continue.

I wanted to write something moving

something that touched

and reached

and yearned

to tend to your wounds. I wanted to heal you

--

But I had lost my focus

and had lent away the tools I would’ve used

to create to people stuck on politics

and my muse had slipped out the back door

while I wasn’t paying attention

--

I wanted to be there

but I wasn’t, am still not

And I wanted to fill you up

with something other than sorrow and to write

so beautifully on this subject

that for the first time, others’d see you

and open to your blankness

and give you countless shoulders to lean on

to make up for the two I never learned how to offer up

not properly anyway

All I do is suggest chocolate and pass out

awkward shoulder pats and yellowing smiles

--

I really

really

wanted to write something to help you

to show you, give you

though I know I wouldn’t because it would be a little off

a trifle odd

but I wanted to make you feel

just that bit better

give you something to commiserate with

when I found myself shut off

when I was missing

--

I wanted to write something

that was there for you

but it’s not

that understood you

but it doesn’t, never can

something that would listen instead of speak at you

and would be warm

and responsive

but it’s cold and selfish

--

this is an un-poem, dark and pitiful

self-deprecating

and not in the good way

preoccupied with itself and babbling

blind

it’s absent

it’s empty

I could never show emotion

scrawled on paper, motioned in air

so it’s cold

cold and absent and selfish

--

Isn’t this ironic

I wanted to write a poem for you

about suicide

But I wrote one for suicide instead

I abandoned the victim

and left you behind

it’s ironic

in its mimicry, copying just what the space

of your cousin left behind

so don’t read this

you’ll cry.