your permanent funeral.

you are leaning forward, head in
your hands, in the grey bathrobe that she
gifted you for Christmas 2019
at a desk in the whitebread Midwest
after she mourned your imaginary death
at least ten thousand times

now you resurface out of the gloom
of the past, slowly rising back
into her vision, tourniquets floating to the top
demanding closure while you proceed to gut her
with the splinters of your own regret

you accuse her of manufacturing your pain, the
racism and history of violence and
abuse are hers, dragging random triggers
from the shore, while your
written words are a fabrication and
sunken apology, your attempted murder
botched by the only woman who was
brave enough to love
you and the dismantled
future of your failed escape