Dear fri(end).


There’s a reason why friend

terminates with end.


It’s not always the sharp


of a knife to my throat

or a slick


in the back;

it’s the tiny pricks that

leave me so utterly porous

before I know it

I’m gushing blood like a river

from the depths of my withering body.


I need a transfusion;

our blood types are incompatible.

Reciprocal rejection.



As you shake that spear

Through my left ventricle





Where are you, my friend?


Parting is such bitter sorrow as you

waste my flesh like some miserable,

festering, thoughtless bacterium,

transforming into a necrotizing fasciitis.


So here we are.

I can devise countless metaphors

depicting the most despicable,

decaying aspects of the human form,

but none can rival

these caseating holes you leave inside my soul.


15 years too long,

15 years too late.

I transc(end) you, friend.

I’ve found my cure;

you’re dead to me.

I may not be whole, but I’m still living.


~Katie Buchanan

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