without a pulse

only seeds were left

her white-washed cheeks

and those protruding bones.

just the little girl

next door in the window

pounding stained glass

with the hurry of heartbeat

now, there are only echoes of words

don’t look through the curtains

stay in the back alley

skipping over puddles,

smoke fills the house

abandoned and broken –

without a pulse.

what goes unexplained

 

 

It’s a better story if i talk about

Finding flowers in open wounds

If i say it’s alright

If i tell you that i’m better now

That i can see the different

shades of morning again

Like i used to

Or if i talk about the spinning head demons

Running circles but there isnt really anything

Poetic about this pain

I cant make this a pretty ending.

red escape

Head spinning

Out of control.

Eyes, gone.

The hallways

Are empty but

no pace

To be.

Running

On an endless

Track.

The infection

Spreads,

All through my

Bones.

The sickness

It leaves me cold.

The t r e m b l i n g

Shudder comes

With a heavy fall.

Not a hallucination

Or even a nightmare.

This is the worst

Of reality.

Hands covered

With crimson

Red of my own

Blood.

There is no

Sting, only the slick

Relief

Straight line of

Shame knots in

Skin.

familiar strangers

This room is sanitized with

psychiatrists and nurse therapists

Sad teenagers and their

parents sit like broken glass dolls.

Opening binders

flipping pages and greeting one another

with a friendly smile, with a

how are you

with uncomfortable small talk

There is Purple and blue silence

packed in the bags under my eyes

I let the tears on my cheek dry as you

push the box of kleenex across the table

toxic instinct

Photo taken in Europe.
Photo taken in Europe

addiction looks

like the

knife gleaming

in his hand

preparing the

dinner we

used to have every

night as a family. 

every lonely night that

reminded me

that addiction

is another kind of kill.

another kind

of destruction

stitched into

pretty lies of

my demise.

all the brown

eyes looking

down to the filled

plate that shame

told me not to eat.

Each chopping

motion, fast

in a hurry.

i cant remember what

i am talking about

the meal preparation

or

my skin?

the freshly

cleaned carrots

or my arms

or my thighs.

addiction

pressing pause

play

fast forward

rewind or repeat.

only now the

ghosts resemble

faults or futures

weighing down

like hammocks

beneath my

heavy eyes.

\

Letter to my dog

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you’ve been barring your bones

in the stones in the driveway

while you chase the mail man,

the boy on the bicycle

the kids who play hopscotch out back,

every moving thing that catches your

ocean blue eyes.

strangers better be warned to

never put their hand out to you

as innocence turns into a flaming demon

captured in your growl.

the old man

throws baseballs and

tennis balls into the

backyard for you to play with

and i know, it makes me wonder too

has he taken his

daily medications today?

and i’m sorry for spraying water on you

for laughing at your fear having a heart attack.

for laughing when you hide

under the bed when i vacuum my room.

no one has ever known what we’ve been through

together, that you’ve kissed my wrists

after they were kissed by a metal blade.