Two-hundred and Sixty-one: Solitaire

I’m speaking cigarette smoke, joking about cuts made like crossword puzzles,
hoping to hear bells ring for beers and red lipstick. I’m lying on dirty floors
just because they’re not as cold as my bed. Sometimes I’m nowhere, not even
in my head, and I split up words into fractions that don’t make any sense. When
I was twenty-one, I couldn’t step on any lines and now, somehow, they’ve come
back and built themselves around me. The right numbers lie just outside, a little
bit longer than the length of my arm, and I’m tired of trying and that’s all that’s
left to cry about. And I know it’s over, but the end is coming on so slow. So I
sit in the dark and count the stripes on my dress; I’ve forgotten how to glow.


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

5 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Sixty-one: Solitaire”

  1. very emotional. there’s always something about pain that gets to me. I sometimes wonder if I’m happy that someone else is feeling it, but I realise it’s because the layers are always so carefully concealed, that it’s refreshing to know that we all feel the same things deep down.

    hope that made sense!

  2. Hmm. There’s this funny thing that happens sometimes when I read your poems. I read them quickly, then I read again, and then again my eyes will go over some of the sentences in the poem. I might skim quickly, then the last two sentences catch me, and I’m compelled to read from the beginning, slowly. And then I fall in love! Fast love, eh??!

    I love this! šŸ™‚

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