We have been buried in bed for days.
What kind of fag are you?

You say, the only thing that’s keeping you
from living fast and dying the same
is your daughter.

I lean in to see her on your phone.
To your eyes, of course, she’s beautiful.

And she is an extension of you—
I cannot but care.
What thorn have you shown me?

I wade in her stares
that were meant to hurt, to hurt.

Does she know the you
that I know?
I thought myself ponderous

as an anchor that could tether you
to a day’s necessary sighs.

But I keep evaporating.
This is a play where I take a side.
So what kind of fag are you?

To leave such charring in your wake,
bribing the night like your personal

gravedigger because your whole
love could never be above ground.
Unbury me—

even if it’s not what you want to hear.
We were dead before we met

and so was the love for you
by your daughter. Let her combust
every blistered misdeed

and destroy us
for good.