i made myself from
the parts of a mirror
you threw away.
curled my hands
into fists because―
how did my therapist phrase this?
"anger is oftentimes
a mask for grief."
or something
like that.

i wonder, sometimes
am i grieving you?
you aren't dead. not
entirely. you are―missing
a poster with an old picture
WANTED curved in cursive
by your name. am i―grieving?
i don't know how to mourn;
darling how could i? i don't
know how to lose.
not you or, in this case,
myself. people are dying
around me and i don't know
what to do with it. do i cry? do i cry?
like a child.

mami mami―make it better
i'm not so young
i can cry to a god that doesn't listen
today. when did i learn  how to do this?
cut the world off?
lock myself in a room?

get as far away from the people i love
―you. golden.
all in my teeth, in my mouth
sputtering. you―you taught me
how to live
and when you died
the mirror shattered on the ground
shards of your reflection
digging into my skin
burning through my nose
like pool water, i'm
drinking chlorine straight from
the bottle
bleach daydreams in the summer
where my hair is straighter, lighter,
burning white
fire
cigarette ash
staining the air with that malboro smell
in the air.

maybe i could cry?
would you―
cry with me?
or would you just go back to
breaking mirrors
and leaving me
with the clean up. your mess
you're mess.
( would you cut yourself in half,
  as soulmates often do? )

I WANT TO CONSUME YOU IN YOUR ENTIRETY BABY WILL YOU LET ME?