Friday, December 22, 2017

Lady of the Evening

Sleeping next to you has been a dagger to the throat
So tonight I'll lay alone and hope you're the one who chokes.
You're a fucking joke!
I hope find this hoax easier to swallow since he opened up your throat.
I'm stifling sobs in the bathroom, so sick and sweet that I choke.
Fucking whore!

I'd slit my own goddamned wrists before I let you back inside
Where will your lechery be put? And don't forget your pride.
I'd have let my blood run out before there was room enough
But by then you'd be bored and fucking him again -- I give up.

Where do you aspire to be?
Why did it have to be me?
I'm struggling to find my voice --
My vision's going red.
As if I had a choice --
'Cause if I did, I'd be long dead.
Your sins are bleeding out --
I see them clearly now.

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Am I Controlling?

Falling straight down the rabbit hole, I'm sure 
You're having a ball
I wonder if you even think of me at all

Foaming at the mouth, from your lips
I've been wondering
Where exactly do you go when you take these "trips"?

This is what I get for falling in love 
With a bottle of impulse and dirty tricks
Maybe if I had stayed home
Or if I had just stayed drunk
None of this hurt would even exist

Nursing the bottle like a child --
Wouldn't it be better to just stay sober?
You can come home to me tonight
I'll feel so much better to have that closure

And I think
Am I controlling for thinking like this?
Or is this habitual thought from experience?
I don't want this to be like the last time
When you said you would be fine
And you lied.
I can't trust you with those words, those lips, those lungs
You let the hits bounce off your breath,
The liquor roll down your tongue
Until there's no one left

And you tell me not to worry
That you can handle it on your own
But you're a chemical wasteland
And you care not for your own bones
And now you're expecting acceptance
When you told me this sick was cured
How is it misconstrued context 
If you said it to reassure?

He's spitting acid from his teeth
And I have no choice but to hide it all beneath
While the fire burns next door
And he's passed out on the floor
I can't help but wonder
Who will take him home?
Who will douse the coals?
Who will fan his bones?
Who will save his soul?

Friday, December 8, 2017

Thomas is Not.


He is not a far mountain
Hidden by some congealing
Inkiness -- a fog, no, he is not.

He is not a setting star
That rests in the atmosphere, boiling
He boils -- but set, he does not.

He is not a child's glowstick cracked
Glow, by some measure, against
The pale night -- but pale, he does not.

And by that glowstick, he does not fade
Nor does he sit at the bottom of pools
And shimmer -- but stick, yes, he sticks.

Like a cat's tongue on the flesh of Earth
The drift, papery ash in the child's hair
And glows --  yes! of embers he stole.

A canary cries, but he does not sing
He howls, screaming in forgotten canyons
Oh, Thomas! -- but forgotten, no, he is not.