Godly in grunge rock,
he was less than ordinary by any other standards—
he tossed away conventional ambitions early
and had a distaste for hygiene—
but when he opened his mouth
to release a raspy cry or screaming growl,
when he put pen to paper
to write down promises, condemnations, whispers of past ghosts—
those few moments made him worth it,
made loving him worth it,
made the nights spent by toilets inhaling the scent of vomit,
the nights spent hopelessly playing tug-of-war with bottles,
and praying to a God you didn’t believe in that he had no needle—
worth it.
Desperate for a cure to a sickness his doctors could not identify,
he was a catalyst for your return to bad habits,
to smoking cigarettes in alleys behind bars so no one could witness your failure,
and to plunging needles in spider veins, shining luminescent blue in the light of bathroom stalls.
You played the hero a million and one times—
always there to make sure he didn’t exceed his daily dosage of thoughts
(his mind was so loud you swore you could hear it sometimes)
but you couldn’t save yourself,
and he could never save you.
Do you blame him now?
Not so much.
You were always good at understanding his demons.
Villainized and condemned,
you’ve taken the majority of the blame for his death,
but they weren’t there to see how you loved him,
how you cried in his still chest
and clung to his cold hands
and stained your hands with his blood just to find a piece of his hair,
a piece of him,
to treasure forever in your locket.
They burned your reputation with his body—
never trying to understand that a tough girl with bleached hair and wine-stained lips
has a heart too.
...
Iva Markicevic has been writing for as long as she can remember. She finds inspiration in mesmerizing strangers, fictional characters, and poor choices.
Iva Markicevic has been writing for as long as she can remember. She finds inspiration in mesmerizing strangers, fictional characters, and poor choices.
