He must have felt like a flower in a forest of clothes,
surrounded by peacoats, jackets, ties, belts.
There, smothered by shadow, forgotten by the sun.
I imagine a black belt with a tired luster came
down from the shelf—its buckle sang
as it scraped across the wood, ready
to pluck a flower from his roots.
Tight around his throat-tight neck,
the belt had an unexpected sharpness to it,
a fact accentuated by each hard, blood-banked thud.
The leather groaned as a tired tree in a storm.
The wilted garment rod creaked.
His long amber hair sagged as tired petals do.
I read your note two weeks later. Your mom gave me it.
It was wordshit. You spelled ‘disappointment’ wrong.
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: