It’s been a while since I’ve sat down to put thoughts on here.
Many nights I want to put a bullet through the thin layer of thoughts that deteriorate the cells in my brain and slow down my heart.
Many nights I walk down the stairs, careful of my coarse feet against the tin floor. I make my way to the kitchen that still has the stain of coffee on the wooden cabinets. I feel the tainted cold in between my toes while the house sleeps, hear an echo of mid-night, of the keys that lie on the counter, of the pot that boiled hours ago. I swallow a bite of left-over food and wander, in between nothingness and silence, drifting away from my reflection in the glass windows that encircle me. I rest on my mother’s seat, still warm, and watch the magenta leaves of Mr. and Mrs. Byron’s garden.
Many nights I don’t intend to do the petty, tiring, night things like brushing my teeth and pulling the heavy covers over my head. Many nights I want to slip out of my skin and walk barefoot on the new lawn, the wet, unfamiliar grass, sit on the patterned swing and fall into silence, gone like everyone else…
Many nights I continue the endlessness of my day-dreams, the sad breathing and become a fainted brush stroke of ink.
I put a bullet through the thin layer of my thoughts, through my damaged soul and write fresh, about what it feels to feel again…
Many nights I don’t bother with poetry because I find it disrupting to reality, to the simple fact that I’ve been alone for a long time, and still have a hard time making it through the hours. I think of sleep the way a child does about a pony.
Many nights, I go to bed, my teeth brushed carelessly, my body half under.