It's okay, you can kill me now

little dove, 

a minute ago, i wrote a poem about how the moon has its ungodly ways to kiss the ocean / i filled blank pages with the fate of every scar i hold dear like a constellation / i wrote about a girl with a bicycle and her basket full of citrusy sadness / i then scribbled for a page & half about the rotten eggs that we keep throwing out of our kitchen window / the stench eats our appetite / so i wrote about an attic bigger than the master bedroom and there's no stairs because honestly who cares / i wrote about you but as a concept / and the lime tree that i bought for $5 from amazon, it's bearing flowers for the first time / i wrote about the sky burning and peeling off like a roasted eggplant / i wrote about whatever frenzy my brain was defaulted on / it was stuck in a loop where a guy kept singing about graveyards and stuff / you probably stopped reading by now / so i can get some practice on my inner monologue about borrowed time / and i think about death like i think about the last flower in a bouquet / wilting, shrinking but not just drowning yet / and my love, a little ago i wrote on everything i can think about before i'm dead / it's not that serious really, maybe only in bits / so hush my dove / it's okay, it's fine

you can kill me now.