Boo

death is not an imploded star

Or a warped galaxy that swoons into a black hole

The poets are jerking themselves off when they describe death like that I think

But death, really… It’s you, Boo, a blonde-wreck of a mess, a mess I created

Your death is my choke-hold that I selfishly carried like a prison

I look into the mirror as I notice I am

Choking myself with the strewn mass of my animalistic organs, a sacrifice you’ll never receive

Oh Boo, I failed you

I failed you

I fucking failed you.