There’s a jinx in your veins that knocking on
wood won’t take away. As you lay on your
dirty mattress, the color of silence starts to
grow louder. Peaceful blue turns manic red,
and you need more. More, more, more,
yells the face in the mirror that is dirty
from residue. All around is evidence of
wasted days: Crushed packs of cheap cigarettes
missing cellophane, an eggshell yellow Post-It
note rolled into a straw, and an empty pill
bottle that ran out this morning. Somewhere
in the sunken face of your reflection is a
young girl who wanted nothing more than a
promising future that didn’t hang in the
balance of a phone call. “Just one more,”
you beg into the receiver. “Just a little more
to last me ’til tomorrow.” Sorrow, it’s what
your cravings take the form of, and they
scream like an infant in an absent crib.
And on the other side of the line, they roll
their eyes and ask, “What about the shit
I spotted you last month?” May, it seems
just like yesterday that flowers broke their
buds. They hang up and you exclaim, “Shit!”
Shit is what you begin to call it after a while
as its invisible claws stir pit of your stomach.
It possesses you and controls the temperature.
Hot, cold, boiling, freezing, sweating,
shivering — it makes you pick your skin,
scrape the enamel off your teeth, and curse
a God who refuses to write a prescription.
Immense tsunamis clash inside, and beneath
them as a depth darker and colder than the
Mariana Trench. You search for the answers
under the couch cushions, but there is
only crumbs and a penny that is patina green.
The world becomes a merry-go-round of nausea.
Eventually you give into the relentless prodding
and text the only person in your life who would
never turn you away. Even when you stole
from her purse and threatened to kill yourself,
the goddess who protected you for nine months
and gave you life still loves you. But after sending
her numerous texts that say, “I love u” and
“I want u” and “I need u,” she replies:


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I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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