To tell you about me

I don't like myself that much.

162 centimeters of flaws,
I count the hours before my sedative
stops making me normal, like a cancer
patient counting the days left.

My skin is ugly in some places,
my bones are weak in some places,
my arms forgot how to hug.
I forgot how to love.
I have thistles in my throat,
my voice is often unheard.

I saw you in my sleep last night.
You were a cripple. In a wheelchair.
You put your weight on me
to get to the bed, and I was fine
with that. I would've been fine with
that. To feel your weight,
to have you this close, to realize
your death was only a sad thought
I had in my head for years.

It's been eight years. Eight years
can do much to good memories. Eight
years can dig grief on a face,
and replace a heart with a pile of
exhausted poems.

Eight years I spent without you,
spent but not lived.
I'm not alive, I'm the most dead
a human can be. I have been
dead ever since a bullet
found the way to your head.

I don't like myself without you.
I know I'm older but grief doesn't age,
grief doesn't know when it's time
to stop, when it has tortured someone enough.

Are you grieving too? Do you
drop in my dreams on purpose? Can you
do that? Can I be five again the next time?
You, taking me to the beach, buying me
ice cream and chocolate-covered popcorn,
watching me run with boys and sit
on the sand.
Me, calling you "daddy, daddy, look, a sand castle
for the king fish!" and begging you to
let me pet the seagulls.

Can we be at home again? Just
for a 30 seconds long dream. Can you
tuck me in and say "goodnight, my genius homework-finisher."?

Or can I just hear your laugh,
the one you would laugh
when I make you a birthday cake?

What else could I tell you?
I don't like myself at all now, dad.
I miss myself with you.
I miss you.
I miss you.