They’ll think the worst.
Driving with my baby,
Colt 45 they’ll pry
from your cold dead hands.
And from mine,
the poem I wrote
to make it romantic.

We knew too much
but nothing real,
like how some live
in the thick of it,
padded by riches,
to back alley needles,
graffiti under bridges.

They’ll find meaning
on a touchscreen.
Autocorrect might suggest
a fitting phrase or two
of platitudes,
which read a little off
in their heads.

Emoji bookends
add a nice touch
of clarity and context.
Just look at all the Likes.
What’s on my mind?
I still can’t show you
that side of me.
Would it kill you to see
the do or die of me?

Still-life, snapshots,
Stop-motion in strobe lights,
blinding flickers of composure
illuminated through chaos.
You can’t see what I hide
in the folds of darkness
inside my heart
when the flash goes off
and the shutter closes.

Ones like you always seem
to end up with ones like me.
You like to tell me
it’ll be okay.
Deep inside,
I fumble for lies,
grip them tightly
behind clenched teeth.
Truth is hard to swallow–
my truth will choke you
or fuck you up.
“You’re probably right.”

I post my poem
and you take a swig.
I tell you to smile.
You’ll never see it coming,
not from a mile,
when the flash goes off
and the shutter closes.
One last drive
on an ordinary night
but death becomes
a life event
larger than Like itself.