When?

for that lady who still makes my eyes fill up, when will you be ready? do you know you will never escape the streets, never rise above the sniff on your own?

talk is tiny and i'm no doctor
you’re bleeding on the floor
nod, re-fill my cup
act as if i understand
my four walls
often vary but they are always stable
honesty won't let me say its sympathy
clear strong words pulled from that strangled throat
“I’m not ready.”
i imagined last words to be quivering, shaking
“I’m not ready."
teetering between profound and real
your slow suicide attempt filling up my nostrils
head-ache in the making, successful to impress
history of broken bits and standing-up the ambulance
wonder how familiar paramedics are with 'no'

“I’m not ready.”
who told you to be patient?
who said preparation? cliff-jumping is exhilarating!
addictions are immortal
with lungs like infants, never give you peace
hope shouting, 'you can't. trash to try,
you will never be enough.'
look down at my own callouses
the bleeding, leaking sores
some so deep and cracked
mirror in my fingers,
so much lace we add, its hard to believe your logo is a pus-y blister
“I’m not ready.”
maybe its the same with all dying words
replay again and again until they lose their force
all the pauses in between, the question we both beg
the path isn’t far, just very, very long