It was made by those who are dead

It's a good day to be devastated.

I could go out, again, but the sun is blinding.

Mixed up coffee drinks and heartbreaking thoughts,

the memory of losing my twin someday soon

puts a bitter taste on my tongue. I want to write 

to transcend all else, in a way that will 

make my ancestors beam down at me with their rays of gold. 

The pressure is crippling. 

I just need to be held and cry, drink cocao, 

and refuse to think about death. 

But dying is all around me, the death of ideas, 

the death of hope, the death of a moment, a minute, this hour. 

I want to submerge, looking inward with disgust

I do not have to try, it's just the coated film across my eyes and mouth

as I exist. 

                  I don't make sense and I know it. 

Out of touch with my balance, and I don't know 

how to find my way, 

the way forward is shut. 

In a limbo; I can only look up 

into a galaxy scarred across my stomach, and trust that time and destiny 

propel me forward, in the direction deemed true north.