The first time your car hit the tree, you said the windshield felt
like a thousand angels’ wings shattering. They found tiny pieces
of your skin stuck to the car seats, scattered amongst the grass
surrounding the accident site. We used to watch James Franco
on television every day after school, your legs over mine,
head resting in my lap, the night sky deepening all around us
like red wine, its colors bleeding into
the nape of your neck. I stitched a quilt once, from all your colors,
and it was more dazzling than a stained glass window.
It was only when your car hit the tree the second time
that the front window broke on impact, fragmenting
into thousands of pieces that were later found
stuck in the palms of your hands, your body slumped against
the tree like some parody of Christ on the cross.
We cleaned out your room two weeks after it happened.
There were lava lamps floating and boiling with liquid heat
on your desk, packages of unused condoms
and gum wrappers strewn across the floor.
The calendar on the wall had not yet been crossed off
for the date of your death.
It was only when I found your handwritten note to me
that I realized who you really were.
I’m sorry, it said. I could never love you in the same way
that I could love James Franco.
I want to be a phoenix rising from the ashes.
This is my siren song: I am not who you think I am.
I loved you but not in the way that I love men.
You never got to use those condoms
because you were too afraid of meeting another man
in a dark alleyway, two bodies burning under the moon,
two hearts beating
as yours never will again.