I spew all these words at you, releasing them from bonking around up in my noggin causing a ruckus.
Love
That’s
Never been
Tasted
Is [Probably]
Still Delicious.
Meanwhile,
You can:
Pass the
Bottle
Back
And
Forth,
Maybe
Pierce the
Cork;
Even,
[light gasp]
Open it..
..For a
Little.
Enjoy your
Sweet
A-roma
Like
It’s the
Only thing
You have.
Share Your
Empty
Glasses.
Make a
Toast to
Sobriety
From each
Other;
Forever
Drinking
your a-part.
Hung
His own sign:
“Self-Banned
From
Dreamland”
Too drunk
To remember
Directions
Of
Minds eye
to
Get there;
Adding
REM
To list
Of places
Too deep
In the thick,
he’d Rather
Forget,
Than be
Caught
Dead there.
my lips,
cuticles,
the insides
of my cheeks,
the callous
on my left
middle finger
where pencils
and pens made
their mark
on me.
the self-harm
is a hobby
of mine.
on particularly
bad lapses
of time
[like now]
these
fingers
dress in
band-aids,
my lips
layered potholes
from frantic
nibbled tears;
at night
i lie awake
afraid
to know the
aftermath of
what drink
after drink
has done
Similarly
to these organs.
My mother
is dying.
so I
bite off
my lips
for not
speaking,
my fingers
bloody
for not
reaching out
more;
drink
the organs
she gave me
stripped
and fatty.
maybe
this time
they will
heal new
and
those skins
Will know
what to do(?)
My brain
wakes up
and cries for
the death of
its living baby.
so used to
hurling
ourselves
down
our hatch,
the still
afterwake
unscathed
is surreal;
like crying
when happy,
our system
malfunctions.
You fed
and quenched
the body
of our
friendship
with flamin hots
and off-brand
sodas.
it feasted
on cream-dollopy
scrumptous
french pastries,
slathered
sizzling bacon
strips in
mayonnaise
before shoving
its mouth full
of indulgence.
now it’s having
heart-pain
under left
arm pit, and
asking us to
write it’s will.
it wanted
us
to know,
“you’ve got
to die of
something…
..why not
make it
something
you love.”
—
we’ve left it,
phone off
the hook;
A bandage
over
vital organ
failure,
to die, only
where it lived.
