Monday, November 4, 2019



—PEOPLE WITHOUT DEMONS MAKE ME A LITTLE SUSPICIOUS


The Journal of Regret, Day 2___

On the other ledge
I hang pink-translucent,
a flaccid drop of
ransomed blood,
my grip greased,
slipping on everything
I used to know. 
You did that.
Yep.
You promised
this wouldn’t happen,
wouldn’t make me
love you so hard, fervent
and targeted.
You said the world was
flat after all,
just you and me in it,
littered with butterflies
and freedom.
But look—I’m flying now,
my flimsy wings are spread
like crumpled foil
desperate for lift off.
I see the soil below,
so clear and ripe from here,
the workman ants,
good soldiers,
laboring like we should have,
tilling, searching and sweating
in the welcome dirt.
And me?
I’m a stupid boy, dropping fast,
waiting for the ground’s kiss,
for the sound of that final
and unforgiving splat.


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