Feeling Bad About the Names We Gave

I know your suicide like the start of a drumroll,

the smell of rotting stars in my pockets

rolling around between fingers.

The wind played the holes in your body

brutally, a soldier

trudging through fields of razor wheat,

leaving behind the taste of sour blood.

The sun hurt, and the moon hurt more,

artillery that hid behind flashing clouds,

that didn't exist in a way you can't explain

like a brain full of made up salt rivers.

This isn't a poem about you leaving,

it's an admission

about how I found your ribcage,

sewed it into my chest to stay close

to someone I never really knew.



Scott Sherman is a graduate of Ursinus College, where he earned his BA in English. He has been writing poetry for seven years.