It’s been almost 3 years since you died.
And I’m still angry.
I’m angry at the circumstances that pushed you to it and that pushed me away from you that pushed me into chaos after I had just started getting my life back in order.
I’m angry that he lived and you didn’t.
I’m angry that he gets to go on like nothing happened and like there was something wrong with you for dying like your death meant less because of how it happened when he should be angry at himself because he saw it coming and ignored it.
I’m angry that he keeps trying to be friends but only in a totally lazy way like we should hang out and I say ok let’s and then he stops responding again for a year.
I’m angry that he’s alive and you’re not as if somehow the two had anything to do with each other.
And I’m angry that you’re not here anymore and I know why you had to go and I know you’ll come back to the world one day but I don’t know if I’ll find you again
he perches, smug
like a fat bluejay
on the wreckage of your life
and I want to throw rocks.