Two-hundred and Eighty: purgatory

he left
just before
the opportunity,
his shy smile,
his dark mystery
and his golf hat
with him,
and leaving me
nothing but
fucking potential.

story of my life.

everyone else
got nothing for something.
as if
usurped their good luck.

and then They rose from the underground
on magic stairs,
hungover on routine.
his alien eyes were
and mine were broken glass.

his hands were handcuffed
and it chafed my heart.

she dropped her fat red rose on the dirty road.
it was my fault.
was it my fault?

everywhere, women are thinner than me.

not even the baby sunshine can ease this ache.
not even the promises of a glorious history.

i’m fading,
right here by the
graffiti flowers
and earthquake pavement.

i wonder if the marbles will mourn me.


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

4 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Eighty: purgatory”

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