Poem

[whoaisme]

There are things I’ve been meaning to tell you. My spine might be crooked from sleeping in an sinking bed, but me. The air kind of carves out my lips like mountains and I don’t know how to say goodbye. The way light sort of hits the iris, scares me because I am scared of light. Who else would lift these bones toward the grave? Who would tell me the night is another name for death. Rebirth. There are things I’ve been meaning to tell you. All of my laughter is half empty. All of my tears long and canyon filled. The rivers in my palm wince and I can only sleep with the water faucet in the bathroom at a slight drip. I don’t know why. Maybe it reminds me of the ocean. Maybe it reminds me of that time I drowned in the bath tub and woke up in a hospital bed 3 hours later, wondering.

My eyes have been broken into and entered but not occupied for 13 years. I can’t swim in them. The night sort of crawls beneath my skin and calls itself me. I can’t get higher than God but I still think I am him. There are things I’ve been meaning to tell you. Nobody has walked through my apartment’s front door in 7 months. Weekend beard. Month long bender. Why is every poem taunting me? They tell me it’s gonna be okay. They tell me say we more often. They tell me I’m smart but I can’t eat words like that. Not the kind ones. The ones like barb’d wire have an endearing stutter’d slice to them. I chip my tooth. Blood fills my mouth. I languish my survivor’s guilt with my soon-dust upon 3am park benches. Nobody can see me. I am alive I think. There are things I’ve been meaning to tell you.

[WIREMAN]

this leaves me wanting more.....

[Doreen Peri]

brilliant writing! thank you!

[revolutionR]

yeah, keep it going.

[whoaisme]

thanks yall

[Tjflowers80]

Thank you! Beautiful and moving to my very core.