One-hundred and Seventy-three: Promise

There was a time when I trapped lightening bolts in my body,
eyes flashing, lips silent; I spoke through my skin,
red rivers of fury, the pop music of pain.

Sometimes I wish I could play
pick-up-sticks with those scratches.
I would put them end to end and
create a thread to her, just to prevent her
burning away the days,
letting moments suck into themselves,
a whirlpool of boredom.

I flash in different ways now.
I am the sun’s reflection on a lake.
I am the little invisible shells
hiding in crevices in its unmade bed.
I am a tree stretching from its center,
charred and proud, still standing.

I would like to go back,
just to take her hand and say:
it gets better. I promise.

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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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