It's not the kind of sad you write poems about.

It's blood-borne like mercury sticking in your veins
Slowing your heartbeat heartsick.
Blackness crashing waves into your bones
Marrow-deep dark times slitting your smiles
I don't want to open my eyes anymore, she said.

Quiet.

Crippled black and blue by the nighttime
Unsure whether the bite of knife-sharp relief
Would taste like mercy or hell
She's forgotten what it's like
To not have empty longing settled in your bones
Like a nightmare that lasts for weeks.

It's not as romantic as it sounds, she tells me.
It just hurts.

Hurts like holding glass under your tongue
Spitting slivers of words that come pre-regretted
Trying to swallow them whole.
Black and blue secret trying to rip its way between your ribs
It feels like dying and the problem is you don't.

Just rust-eyed tearspotting the desperation you thought had passed
Like riptide-torn hunger for the way things might have been
If you hadn't lost your lust for waking up in the morning.
Blown glass glances breaking bones knockturn
Heartbeat downturn pulsing you black and blue.

Quiet.

Heartsick like heartache you cough once and spit sea glass
That will never have edges soft enough to be a gift.
You will never not cut their fingers.
You will never not cut your own.

Hush.

Marrow-deep; terminal.
Expect this to give you as long as you can stand.
Black and blue; final.
Hush.

Hush.