''Myths''.
''The nights are not worse.
It's the mornings.
Blinding obscene light of the living, of the free.
The drive-thru girl's maniacal drawl asking, will that be all?
It's not the closet or the makeshift shed
with all his tools and things he touched.
It's the bathroom drawer.
He had so little.
A black comb, his cologne, the tube of hair product.
Useless.
It's not the friends worrying or reaching out to write.
It's the friends who don't ask.
The black velvet silence.
The hole he has been dropped into like a well
without a rope.
It's not the friends not asking.
It's the strangers asking, what did he do to deserve it?
What did he do?
It's not the question, it's the translation.
He deserves this.
So you deserve this too''.