'Two Hues of Blue'

Annika Caune

The day I realised how much you loved the idea of dying was the day I began to die too. A little piece of me broke off, falling. Clay clumps over a cliff edge.

Gripped from the beginning, taken by the idea of a lifeless body and never returned. Daisy painted eye sockets and hues of blue that mimic cold lips.

I thought you liked to swim, but swimming for you was just entertaining the idea of drowning. You picked me flowers - I wouldn’t have accepted them knowing - they were for your grave.

The grass was long in the summer and we fucked in it. You asked me to choke you, filling up a wanting of empty lungs. The grass was long and you ran through it like wildfire. Looking for snakes to bite your ankles and suck the life from your limbs.

What a strange juxtaposition you were: sprinting like there was something to run from, like you wanted to jump off.

I saw the skulls you painted; dark notes of death in all their creases. Pondering for hours your subtle end.  Fog filled mornings that you wished would swallow you up.

Stuck so long to this damp earth; suicide is selfish. Words don’t resonate in demon-infested caves. Raspy breathes forcing hoarse notes, the last too long to hold.

I drove chewing and anxious to a condemning emergency room. Sentenced at last, choosing an end. I lay those flowers on your grave, brown and decayed.

Drinking from an empty flask, continuing to sip though no liquid will ever reach my tongue. Alive and well just past the invisible wall, the glass pain.

I am the clay falling from that cliff; weightless into blue oceans I will dissolve.

I run through those fields, harvested. Lungs expand, heart pounds, ache of my ill-used muscles. Pounding toward an edge that doesn’t exist, desperation dimming my sense of reality. I want to fall off.

Can I have those flowers back? I want to lay them on my grave. I’m sick of watching things die. We should have fallen together, they wouldn’t have minded. It was an accident, accidents happen.

Accidents like razors on wrists and ropes around necks. Like blue blood that turns red when it ends up on the wrong side of your skin. My death was an accident too; I couldn’t help but slip.

The Collective