The frayed edges of a Southern
Living Magazine lay open
on a low table, etched with scars
from years of heavy-handed
cross-outs.
I lay on a brown couch,
pale limbs like the bent stems
of late-spring flowers,
growing too close to the edge
of a hiking trail.
Pluck me at my roots.
My mouth is wide
open. My throat
a long tunnel for worms
to burrow through.
My stomach becomes a new resting place.
Mountain Laurel and my grandfather's ashes
mix in the acid of my stomach--
a medicine for my mind,
steeped in the chemical concoction of:
BUPROPION HCL XL 300 MG and BUPROPION HCL XL 100 MG.
I want to taste dirt.
Freshly turned and long resting,
I want to taste the dirt
laying over the dead.
Flecks of skin
and dried muscle
stick between
my teeth.
Take 300 MG in the morning
and another 100 MG in the afternoon,
for a second wind,
so you can make it through
the evening Never leaves
an impression.
I trace the passing
of time across the ceiling.
There are indents
of a PUSH & TURN
bottle cap
on my right hand.
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a/n: Something older I wrote, definitely not perfect. But, if you liked it, please comment, vote, share, and/or give me a follow. More to come soon, I'm aiming to update every Wednesday and Saturday with a new poem.
The title is taken from "Be Yourself" by Audioslave
Inspired by Ocean Vuong's "Aubade with Burning City"
YOU ARE READING
A Mind Beneath the Waves
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