Tag Archives: i have no idea

Burying Nevus

It was a few steps forward, twice removed, seconds away from pulmonary distress. The rough patches of ocher blisters felt like frozen ice lodged in his windpipe, a cowardly conviction that he wouldn’t dare speak. His fault. His mistake. His responsibility. Him, a filthy traitor. The constricting bracelets felt like bleeding handcuffs, prosecuting him for his blithe misunderstanding. This was never my intention, yet why am I riddled with disorienting guilt? One voice asked in attrition. It’s not you to blame if you didn’t know. Awareness is key. Another reasoned out calmly. Ignorance is the enemy of reason. A third entity argued in hostility. Every choice made sense, thus, he told them all to shut up so he could think. He bit down on his raw cheek until bile flooded his throat and metastasised as an abrasive lump. The bloodied bruise tasted like a salty alibi in his mouth. He submerged his soberness in liquid regret until it drowned, and sunk in inebriation. After he could think no longer, he made his final decision. He carried through. He knew it was unfathomably wrong, fatally so. But it was warranted.

It was just another scar tissue he had to permanently hide.

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Filed under Prose

Broken Li[n]es

Injustice in ancient summer plays

Of just two proud feathers wired

Both refusing to be ruffled

By the zephyr that transpired

Just two proud idiots

Who can’t pick up the pieces

Thinking it will hurt them bad

They don’t wanna play hostess

So they just step on it instead

And fucking bleed out dead

Carving stars into their throats

On the razor blades they choke

You ask to forget it all forever

Why, what’s so good about it?

It’s nothing but stupid lies

Inject your usual ante of shit

Accentuate your faults and pose

We’re both the victims here

And don’t you miss the arrogance

The thrill, tasting that fear?

The conversations that ravelled

About the scars that don’t give a damn

None of it even mattered

But at least there was someone

So please don’t let me forget the days

I don’t want to simply erase it all

But if it’s that easy for you to blot it out

Maybe it was best for the mirror to shatter and fall.

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Filed under Poetry