Between wraiths and mimes (Poem)

I knew this girl once.

She overdosed on truth and I watched her die.

I saw her in narratives,

I saw her on graffiti

I heard her sing me lullabies when I held tiny sharp knives close to my eye,

In hopes of a glimpse into spectres surrounding me.

Others say the only time you met her was at the funeral,

A mixed affair of hummingbird red lipstick

And miner dust black suits,

Where I sat in the front row of stiff suede chairs

Fingering something sharp in my false pocket.

I knew this girl once.

She overdosed on truth and I watched her die.

It was she who told me the earth bleeds its own special blood when cracked open,

It was she who licked the sweat off my neck,

Awake on a sordid New York night,

Drenched by the day's tears,

And whispered to me:

'Some things which are broken can never be fixed.'

I knew this woman once.

She missed her appointment with death,

And I sat baffled,

Still battling wraiths,

Glimpsing wars between her and a mime

Watching walls splashed in whitewash,

Dreaming up fascinating ends to my tomb-like evening.