Let Go.

Mocking Bird Down

Bloody_Face_of_Bagul
Remembering you, is like placing my lips
on a heavy bottomed whiskey glass, filled
with tiny sharp shards of a broken mirror
and tilting it into my mouth. Slicing my tongue,
the same tongue that licked the blood from your lips
when you fell into my glass desk.
Tearing at my throat, with a familiar burn,
that comes only from crying so hard that the
salted grief becomes more acidic with
each clear recollection of
just how
fucked up
you
are.
The mirror catches the light, like you did,
but it makes me keel over; internal bleeding
and a searing pain, also familiar. Your calling card.
You found me when I was just a young girl,
and you added an unforgettable misery
to my world.
Your creation was my slow deterioration.
Your masterpiece was the physical
damage that would grab at me with it’s clammy hands
still, fifteen years later.

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Selfish Timing.

You will forgive me,
if I am miles away, it seems,
do your best to just overlook,
torn out pages from the book,
fake that smile,
a uniquely outworn,
chameleonesque style,
you’d be smart to ignore,
my presence for a while;
You will believe me,
when I tell you the things,
in the long moments – left unsaid,
but genuinely and truthfully spirited,
walk the plank,
if it pleases your mom,
you’ve got history to make,
best take that shit home;
You will regret me,
for your selfish timing,
so many months within a year,
and you chose now to wing it here,
absorb the blow,
of the sucker-punch,
quit your slithering below,
own your bullshit for once.

No. 77

Mocking Bird Down

354424636-leather-sofa-suicidal-person-overdose-overthrowing-knocking-over

Pick me up in stages,
let my knuckles drag,
and my head drop and loll,
mouth open, struggling to breathe.
Let my eyes roll back,
and wait for my pulse to become
so feint..
that the fingers pressed
to my neck would have to be so still
just to feel any signs of life.
Hide and seek with timing,
and the only evidence lies
in how fast the blood dries up
and clots.
And then ask me.
Do you want to live?

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Resting Place.

We slept without breaths –

underneath six feet of topsoil,

bathed in the heavy suffocation,

of loosely strung illumination –

another silent burial site’s

flimsy paper lantern lights,

among the beloved already beneath,

primordial soup of bones and teeth –

a headstone: too heavy,

a secret: too kept too steadily,

a lifetimes of anchors: dropped deep –

chained to my chains for all eternity,

a fate bound to a rabid Mammoth,

chained to both well-traveled,

and yellow, daisy-kicking feet,

we dreamt without darkness –

under the same stars,

that together, we once betrayed,

in a match’s quickly stricken,

enticing phosphoric display,

we struck fire to the paths –

from which we just had strayed,

never looked back, admittedly,

we ran until it all faded away,

into one, never-ending and exhausting –

ill-fated, suffocated final resting place.