The Comedian


The Comedian sits slouched on a leather chair
The razor rests on her lap, blood coagulating
She stares directly at a blank white wall that is
the same shape and content as her hopes and dreams

Tomorrow she will tell a friend she did not get scared
when the cold metal entered skin, and she knew she
could go further if she wanted. If I could, I would
hold her hands before they begin to dry

Recite every brilliant line she has ever uttered
Every gut-busting punchline and wacky voice
Tell her my prayers, even the ones I only
half believe in are kisses on the forehead
of a fevered universe, a plea for caring

in a vacuum where stars listlessly drift
Tell her, you are more than the bright
artist I know: you are the flesh and blood
pumping of something that will never again be.

To the ones who pour it all beneath the watchful
eyes of a faceless crowd, then go home and
crumble at night, for everything that it’s
worth: I love you, I love you, I love you

Anthony Bui is a PGY 3 Psychiatry Resident at the University of California at Irvine.

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