Sunday, June 29, 2014


Sometimes, there are fights. We are jigsawed wood that does not fit. The grain didn't stain well, splotches of vibrancy. Picture frames made poorly, transparent but not sturdy. Barely holding it together. Eventually, it will break. The wood will warp from the heat of our words. The glass will fall, crack, shatter - and who to clean up the mess that follows? Are the images worth remembering? I look nothing like my photo. If this house burns, will my past go with it? Afternoons on the roof in November, legs hanging from the edge as if they were ghosts on nooses. I have never been good at tying knot, and it's easy to get tangled, caught, lost in what ties us together. Disillusion in our connections. "Stay still, I'll cut you out" has always been my response, like rescuing people from their  complexes was my profession. Despite my demeanor, my demons have refused the savior's journey. I've been hanging on with worn, rusty fingers and sometimes, there are fights not worth holding onto.


"I'm still doing heroin."
Your voice cracks,
but you're holding back sobs
like a gunshot holds back runners.

But you,
you have a different type of track.

Marks hidden
by long sleeves
and emaciated eyes
told me your secrets
before your voice box opened up.

And when your monsters
were let out,
they rampaged.

They could have leveled cities,
but this atomic bomb was meant
for you. A no-survivor's
war of attrition
between the demons and gluttons
in your veins and
the survivor
in your brain.

was the well placed knife
in the jugular.

You've bitten the hand
that tries to help too many times.
My scars are not as numerous as your,
but this ship is not without its holes.
I've put out life rafts only to find
that drowning
is your new favorite past time.