Sometimes, I die inside
because people I love
are there.
There’s no solution,
no medication
to tighten tear ducts
or lighten the aches,
no erasers for the sharp lines
and needle air;
just a chair,
pull it up and sit there
while I flood inside.
Witness this piece of me
that smiles
and cries
and smiles
and dies,
then turns blood to mud
with lullabies and apologies
for almost
being good enough.
The only remedy,
the only way this ever flows
is to let me rip the pages apart,
play those songs on repeat,
let me scream,
let me dance,
let me retreat
to the dark silence
of nothingness
until the rapids slow,
and I float
back
to the surface.
Published in Blood & Bourbon #10.
