you remember when you were young, when you were eight nine ten eleven, when your mother would take you to the salon, to the little room where they would lay you down and strip you bare spread wax on your body like it was honey.
they would cover your limbs, your armpits, your tummy. flesh bare skin raw, they’d lay down strips of cloth paper and rip the hair out of you, rip it from you as if it was a mistake, as if that’s what it...
and after he killed himself
you don’t shower for five days,
change your clothes, or brush your hair.
you want to sit shiva, but you’re not jewish,
don’t know what it means.
but for you, grief alone
doesn’t seem like a good enough excuse.
he mentions you in his note
and you know this, not because you read it,
but because someone’s mom told someone
who tells you. and that hurts more
than the death itself.