Wednesday, August 19, 2015


the heart jumps
out of the throat.
it becomes a thud
on the hardwood floor.
you're not shocked anymore.
you just wipe the outlines of blood
with a paper towel,
like it was a conglomeration of water.
you're just a stone statue
standing over this thing,
swearing to god
you're going to leave it there
it behaves.

but it never does,
and at this point
asking for a truce
is just asking for another war.

so you scrap it off the ground
like it's a piece of dried gum
and you swallow what's left.

1 comment:

  1. Yikes. Another dark ass poem.

    Loved it, but we gotta talk. Let's get a beer soon . . .