The Mice Are Burying the Cat

I would not have made
much of a soldier, weeping
as you polished my boots,
faces, or our
longest phone call
didn't hear me.
Journals end in my name repeated,
maybe you're walking on apples, and
I could stop eating, taking
pills, imitate,
stability is illusion veins quaking.
My head inside my head
is fine and needs to choke
the breeze.

But look how nice my notes are.

Soft salads and handwriting, I've
seen myself to bed, sewing
seeds to sheets, blood coils
down my forehead oh
no no no that isn't how
I am and how you'd love me happy. Have
no guilt. We are here, unsure of everything
I've done, and
this, thin,
I keep grasping at my collar
bone, holding
you there, is
our garden still alive? I
have to be your friend,
and you already knew.