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Sick to my stomach trippin on your vomit, behavior, and lies. How do you sleep at night while your liver is drowning the purity and good in life? Are you tethered? Are you too far weathered in your cans of clouded vision? Pop another tab. Buff your welcome mat laid for bad decisions, and let it shine like pyrite in the noonday sun. Usher in the gin and tonic dressed in tails, smooth and toxic. And let it burn you down. But don't you dare try to take my children with you. Because if you do, those tabs you'll be poppin, won't belong to those God-damned, cloud-filled cans. Oh hell no.
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I've chased time to find you. Stumbling on the footpath, fumbling over puddles of unused minutes that left trails of empty wakes. I could never shake you. From groggy naps upon mountain tops, to destitute deluges of wishes and would-be fishes. All made the days slip by. Merely tadpoles, and guppies, and sleep in my eyes. Now, while fully awake, the glass mocks me. It ticks and tocks me. Gravity keeps knocking at my door, begging for more while the stars wait in queue for the right alignment. What the fuck ever. I'll still chase time. Just to find you. Because you, you get under my skin like an electric lotion I want to beg for. I could scream it from the rooftops, but that would be unconventional, or too cliche. Over used? I could die with one slip. I'd rather just strip myself down to the nubbins of my soul. I'd rather just show you. Between the midnight pulses, through the wanton webbing of the witching hour, you slither in on shadows. Poised in forked tongue repose, you strike. Your mark is sunken deep, and I weep for the child that I was. Naivety is lost on youth, but you, You sell it like snake oil. His tears
toppled down cheeks like whiskey pellets - hollow and rotten. Empty cans clanked on a bedside table, too sticky to grace the floor. A heavy waft escaped a dying man's cracked mouth, and groaned out retreated apologies. Waste not. Want not. And somewhere, a door slam echoed echoed through the chambers of a lifeless, drowning heart. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Archives
February 2019
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