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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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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