The English breakfast tea I kept for you
Sits cold and stares blankly at me from its cupboard every morning...
I stare back.
It is easier than listening to your vibration pattern on the kitchen counter at 3 am
and punching my name into your mouth as I look through our broken mess.
it is easier than washing your shirts and bras
that drown my nose in rum
I wear your top sometimes.
It is easier than remembering the last time I was held by you
Or throwing out your note you never meant a word of.
It's like every other day
yet today somehow is dedicated to you
Though it shouldn't be.
I wonder how long
I will sit here with pieces of you
And pretend I know why you left me in the first place.
The English tea I kept for you
now sits cold
I hear your thoughts
scraping inside your skull
as if you're counting in your head.
with your ribs ascending through your skin
yet I still question, how you felt so under fed.
she turned 48 today. My mother...I won't wither in her sorrows as my mind expands to a different sight of glory. I remember the slow traces of touch she led from her fingertips across my skin at night, and the screams of pride at the back of an open audience. I remember the way she cherished my beauty, and examined my features as hers. I remember climbing in next to her when nightmares filtered my sleep.
As numb as I may feel. I still miss your laugh. Do you know how fucking pathetic that makes me feel? I wish you knew how bad it fucked me up. yet all of me knows, there was no saving you, even with the right words.
You drew wine from your lips, and drank liquor from your breath, your cries of joy bled vodka and your brain melt acid. Your blood ran like gin, your spit formed of tonic. You were alcohol, and just happened to be an alcoholic.
It's terrifying isn't it? love. I'm falling so very deep, deeper than any before. A new day for him is a new day to make me happier than the one before, oh the privilege of being his.
He reminds me of chocolate. Chocolate with a vanilla filling, warm, desired. His cocoa ran stains through my veins, piercing them red to match with my heart. The foamy thickness of the air enchants my room. The light blooms blood. I ignore the red light, the clinking metal, the muffled humming, loving him was like walking along the tracks even though I knew a train was coming.
And often there is a crack in my father's favourite wine glass. A sentimental slither of pure menace that run up from the curve that bridged his smile. pain constantly stained his cheeks; tears clogged his throat. life was a game I told him. he knew he should keep on playing, even though she wasn't here. the dice was rigged, he wasn't dealt a good hand, she left the game too early before the hourglass could run out of sand. the glass is slowly caving in, leaving my father's palms full of cuts, his fingers full of slashes. It's not much longer, before the wine glass smashes.
