Doc says it should be genuine,
like a confession
before death.
But, I tell him I got no one,
and the walls are inspiration
for hospital gowns
and crazy fucks
that rant about voices,
resurrections,
grandiose escape plans,
and innocence.
I tell Doc I don't need therapy,
unlike them I know I'm guilty.
I know I'm here because it's right,
I meant to kill you that night.
Still, Doc says a poem is 1 of 10,000 roads to run away...
...and I told him that just made me think he's never
judged as wrong as I,
nor sentenced as right
for all his crimes.
He was confused.
I said, "You see, I want to be here,
because in this reality she's dead
and I have pulled the trigger,
and there are no escape pods to run to,
no rhyme that can unmake it,
no pardon,
just regret and empty space,
a moon with toxic methane."
He said to write you anyway,
like you would write a ghost one day.
So, I dedicate this to the wind
that was left after you left
with the smell
of blood and flesh
tangled in your perfume,
and to the chlorine
the guards use to clean
this haunted cell.