For Chris On the 1st Anniversary of Your Suicide

I guess he lost his way when he left the beaten path, I guess he was confused when instinct and logic crashed. I guess he killed his brain cells with alcohol and hash, I guess that his insanity held him firmly in its grasp. Asleep, I guess his paranoia seemed to grow and bloom, I guess he sensed something paranormal in the room. I guess his blackened pupils must have scanned and searched the gloom, I guess he thought he heard the icy rattle of the tomb. He pretended to have a job, I'm told, and daily left the house, then sat all day in the cellar, I'm told, as quiet as a mouse. I heard that when she wasn't there, he sometimes wore her clothes, I imagine him sashaying on his man-sized tippy-toes. His insanity made him mad, i guess, if that makes any sense, I know his thoughts were warped though, by no coincidence. I see him in a fetal posture, vulnerably curled. I see him having lost all hope and contact with the world. I see him sitting all alone, re-reading what he wrote, a madman's twelve page ranting in his sad and final note. ©Danielle White