One after another relapse after another second ticking to the next making it difficult to ring in another year before the world shakes and time cannot stop gossiping about the killing blood on the bedroom walls.
© Single-Serving Packages
Christmas, pock marked from naked
Branches shoved by the fractious winds,
Exposed the signs of a struggling
Economy and weather-beaten lumps
Of forgotten love in a poverty-ridden
Heart, then waned with expectant hope.
It turned out I was good at holding onto
Bad dreams, bad at keeping good lovers
Who wanted to walk in wet leaves singing.
Do you know who I am when no one
Is looking? When just-for-the-night guys
Forget to remember me between breaths?
Painting is equal parts prayer and hell’s fire, as light
As a meteor reflected off morning’s icy lake and
As dark as your dog’s bones in the backyard grave, or
Like when you are lying in an embrace, stretched,
Kissing him with all your heart and then you are
Curled like a fetus in a basket wanting to be loved.
The holiday ham tongued the glaze
Of hunger’s disillusionment and
Taste buds cursed the tangled tree lights
While I spun in a dance of your
Disproportionate equilibrium and
Tepid nostalgia of another lover, not me.
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