Guilt

I make broken promises

To dead writers

Who sit in hospital beds

Writing odes to bed pans

And succeeding

I tell them I am empty

Like their palms and gin glasses

That I have the proper amount of despair

To launch irony

That makes it to heaven

I tell them my blood is gangster

Vigorous

And it’s blackmailing my pulse

Turning my plasma into moonshine

Wasted on anger

Matching their likeness

I make pleas

To dead, white men

Who ruminate on gibberish

That I diligently try to understand

Often, I believe I do

So I lie to ghosts

Cause the voices said they’d care

If my spleen was clean

Or my bed sheets white

If my birthmark is real

Or their bodies stayed tight

Like their lungs

I dream to breathe with

Like their hearts

I ache to beat

But I sit here in my serenity

Guilty

Of those I’ll never meet.