Dear Jesse, we all know who you are.
I’m sorry you woke up and found her
no longer breathing.
You’re my favorite saint, maybe. I know
this wasn’t for you, but I don’t know who it’s for.
You lost Virginia, your house, your girl,
cut your hair and tried to stop caring.
I like to think I know where you come from:
shaking like a paper house,
crying behind the barrel of a gun.
I don’t, Jesse.
Indifference growing in between perfect teeth.
Paint over dirty walls,
Trying to cut loneliness off
at the branches,
skinning your knees tripping over roots.
I remember you as a stranger with sad eyes,
telling me you get used to it.