dead men

I wish I could tell you a thousand things.
But that wouldn’t help.
And it’s not what you think.
It’s not even really words,
ideas, and thoughts.
Friendship isn’t complicated.
It’s doesn’t necessitate intimacy,
it necessitates understanding and empathy.
I get it.
It’s easier to kill a friend than to keep one alive while they’re bleeding out on your floor.
I just wanted to bleed a little longer.
At least long enough to know why I was bleeding, and why you were killing me.
But you killed me in the light,
it wasn’t dark.
You knew why you were killing me,
but I didn’t know why I didn’t try to resist.
Just a cup of coffee,
a conversation,
stories shared between hearts,
was all I wanted.
But stories and coffee and texts are for friends who are alive,
you told me.
And I was dead.
I was already in the shed, gathering maggots and stench.
But you were not going to call Christ to resurrect me.
Dead men don’t talk,
dead men don’t call,
dead men don’t text.
Dead men don’t bother people.
Dead men are nice.
Dead men are dead.

But this dead man just wanted to know that you were doing okay.

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