To the black cutter

To the black cutter
this epistle is penciled 
with memories of wished-for pistols                                                                                                 memories of those mental recitals of the poetic suicides                                                                      that never comforted the spirit enough to clear up the intensity                                                                 of that pounding 
in your chest.


To the black cutter
this epistle is penciled
with memories of when you recognized that there was still                                                                     eight pills of oxycodone in the cabinet left
and if you mix that with tragedy 
you could choreograph the most elegant dance 
to your death
for a chance to have one chance at control.


To the black cutter 
this epistle is penciled
with memories of days when you 
had black aporia and human dysphoria 
and the weight of that fact had made
the world feel less intact as if your blackness was enough                                                                             to make the galaxy collapse 
on top of you.

To the black cutter
this epistle is penciled 
with memories of the days when 
the world had opened up inside 
your arms 
and the map you made
ashamed cartographers 
for each vessel connected dots
of your self-harm
and located New Worlds
of degradation.

To the black cutter
this epistle is penciled 
with memories of the days 
that I felt like you
when I too, sung the song 
of the dead
when I too, danced the dance 
of the hopeless
when I too, split the world 
on my wrist
when I too, lived like you.


To the black cutter
this epistle is penciled
in memory of the day 
it got better.

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