'' Bad Days Make Good Poems ''

Your Obituary [mental health/love poem]

I often wonder if you'd call me first if you were ever really going to die at your own hands.

I'd pick up the phone, 
Listen to your words and your sad, lonely, tone,
Think about how you wish your candle flame would be blown.

But I will not write your obituary.

I won't tell you it's okay or that I understand,
I don't understand, I won't play a hand
In telling you that it would be okay for your life to sift out of my grasp like sand.

And I will not write your obituary.

I'd rather commission it from some dead-end journalist
They could be the brightest or the dullest,
They could go on about the loving embrace of a god you don't believe in the slightest.

I do not care. Because I will not write your obituary.

--

If you decide to call me, though,

I will write you a new world, a new sky.
I'll write you a DIY cloud maker so that even if you can't do so much as bat an eye,
You can make your own clouds in your new sky in any shape you desire.

If you'd only just call me,

I'll write you texts and letters and messages in bottles, songs,
I've never been good at writing songs,
But I'd find Rihanna and get her to write you something if it'd make you wanna dance with me a little bit longer.

If you called me,

I'd write you a body that's veins are made of electricity that'll never decay,
Because outlets are easier to find than reasons to stay,
But I'll still find you reasons to stay.

You can call me,

But I won't ever tell you it's okay,
I won't  tell you I forgive you for saying goodbye this way,
I won't say goodbye, not ever and not today.

You can still call me, though.

--

I don't want this.

I won't come by to pick up your package of body parts,
That I know you would've left for me in your remarks,
When they call to ask "ma'am, what do we do with them?" like they'll break my heart.

But I don't want them.

I'll say burn them or feed them to stray cats,
Hurl them at the sea or throw them at school children brats.
I won't hold them and throw myself into the mental combat.

I do not want them.

I don't want your heart, it's not yours anymore,
It's just a heart, I already have one, I don't need more.
It doesn't even beat, I could just drop it on the floor.

I don't want it.

I don't want your lungs, especially soon,
They can't breathe and they have no use,
They're just deflated birthday party balloons

I don't want them.

I don't want a momento jar to keep your teeth in,
I don't want a blanket of your skin,
I don't want your clothes to wear and pretend you're there at every moment.

I do not want any of it.

--

You're not there.

There's no blood there,
There's no life there,
There's no you there.

I want you there.

--

I won't write your obituary.

But I will write you so many shitty dead lover poems,
That people will confuse my tongue for your tombstone,
And they'll try to plant roses in my throat.

I cannot write your obituary.

Not while you're still here.
Not when your voice in my head is still something I can so clearly hear.
Not when the finish line of life is so far from near.

I can't bring myself to write your obituary.

So, if you call me,
If you're ever really going to kill yourself,
Please call me.

I can't write your obituary.

--

But I can pick up the phone.