play, pause, replay

a slice of sky

I trace my fingertips over the wrinkled sheet

of my old bedroom, the room I wouldn't have

imagined to abandon ten years ago.

By now, I've known every twist and turn of 

my goddamned mouth, the enlargened

cavity of my chest, the thud in the pit of my

stomach, and whatnot. At times, it's now or

nothing, and the other times, it's just like that.

When I lift my head and try to hold the slice 

of the sky, I could see from the room with my eyes,

I name every chaos and color after the names

of every Daisy, Atlas, Greyson, and Phoebe with whom

I couldn't be the closest to when they needed me.

There's the old prescription resting on the glass

table, the green envelope from the pharmacy, the

blue bag of Grandad's journals; sometimes I wish I

could get to the rooftop with a bottle of half-chugged 

wine and think of you. But I don't. I can't.

My head hurts too much when I try to think of you.

Is it the expired wine I had last night?

Or is it the sky that weeps before my sunflower field?

While I stand amid the haze of dead blues,

crying and crying and crying until there's nothing

left of me. Or so I think.

When I lift my head, I feel so under the ocean.

There's a hint of orange blossom and the

rush of maple light, twinkling against the wall.

Tonight, I feel like sketching your face, an

almost parallel image of the dipping sun and

the house of cards on the edge of the railing.

My faith's so thick in lies it might explode and

result in subdural hema-fucking-toma.

Tonight, I feel like dying. Hell, I am thinking

of a thousand ways to die, and I don't know why.

Perhaps because when you see someone dying,

you see the flashes of fairytales and pixie lights,

and all the million reasons why you shouldn't die.