I Still Give Myself Grace
I pour out another
non-alcoholic beverage for
the suburbia where I
used to
force my head to lay.
The tear stains on
my pillows may be a
distant prostitute to
whom I
still owe money but
I still give
myself grace.
Even the
bullies who placed my
third eye in
toilets will be
forgiven
in time.
For now, I
let old winter days pile up.
They’re only
terminal, after all.
Buttered Toast Memories
Buttered toast memories
march into my sinuses.
They are led by the
caws of nameless birds.
Do I greet it all
with a friendly wave
or a
corrosive snarl?
I glance at my
watch for
advice; the years
shuffle away like my
mother’s throat.
May I choose to be grateful
regardless, for this
life is
nestled on a fault line of
all the
pills I take.
Your Wing
This loathing of
mine lays solely
on your tombstone.
A stray memory
or three
may lay eggs in
now barren garbage dumps but
it’s always the
broken light-tubes to
which I return.
The shard don’t even
hurt anymore; they’re
a minor annoyance I
shrug off along with
the millionth lie you told.
It’s frustrating that
I still miss you but
your wing
is still
warm
after all these years.