It comes out fast, but not in words.
This is my life, the direction the blood flows
the direction my fingers point. Hard,
shoving down into places I've only just seen,
places I only dare reach after three hours
of alcohol. And here I am again, besides piles of dirt,
and I am pushing outwards
from my heart. Running against worlds that have words
magnified and I see why,
but wish it was not like this,
like swallowing flying sauces,
these are collected wounds, thinking straight,
sat under a double duvet on a single bed
and I will not look up. I will check moles three times a day
for inflation, take in oxygen while holding a notebook with 40 poems
tucked inside.
If my back bends to my breaking point, if my abdomen muscles split
like cold lips, if I tell the truth
will it take me up in elevators, will it take me down new halls?
This is falling, this is never reaching the ground,
never eating leaves then getting up to go.
What if I am sorry, if I could jump harder up and down,
if I could cause inter-skin shakes and dinner plates
to rub together and gnaw loud, like secrets
not wanting to be kept.
I need a watering can to help this
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Halloween is Right around the corner.. .
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