4:27 in a Morning That Won’t Die
Where does
the light
go when
it leaves
me here
fumbling in
the dark
waiting for
the tipping
of chair
and
creaking of
rope taunt
against beam?
In Bed
Looking at you sleeping there
it makes me think even hell
is endurable when you’re there
with someone who whispers
the words “I love you,” in the night.
But then later I’m alone
darkness crawls across naked floors
on deformed belly to remind me
love always ends and
hell is always infinite.
Chalk Outline in the Dirt
Come untied,
pulled apart.
A ghost before birth,
dead before being fully formed.
Deformed shapes in dust
where something used to be.
Two seasons long,
been and gone.
A self harm still leaks
leaving crimson trails behind
everywhere I’ve been to,
everywhere I’m yet to go.
Bleeding out slow
37 years old,
full of bullet holes,
duels I drew too slow.
You were the only song
I knew the words to,
a pile of empty clothes &
bones without you.
Out of Sight
Fingering splinters,
Picking flint – out of my mind.
Ripping away at myself
one stitch at a time.
Getting a grip
All choked up,
black and blue.
And it’s so fucking vacant.
And it’s too fucking warm.
Shut the door on me.
Slam the door on me.
Pursed against fabric of night.
Screwed up letters unwritten, unsent.
Curled burnt in Autumn fires.
Rosary repeated on scraped knees.
Bounced off Discolored faded walls,
thrown through doorways,
86 me.
86 me.
Rehab
Too many relapses, interlude cold turkey.
Weight lost, stomach cramps,
the shits and the shakes. Hearing
voices where there are none. Mental
movies on repeat, the screen
holding you there, a detox most painful.
