You couldn’t give me
shelter
when a hurricane crumbled in
with gusts irate enough
to send solid bones trembling.
Yet stoic you stood
somewhere in the rain
commenting about a nice day
while everything we were
unraveled.
A world of pain
is all I seem to be
these days.
Strong drink in one hand;
who cares if I’m drunk by six?
Somewhere behind a cigarette,
watching smoke roll out from
painted lips as though it lets go
of something more.
My soul collapsed years ago,
weary of living
suffocated by vices dripping
poison precariously in my veins.
Maybe someday
they’ll throw me from the ledge
I’ve stared down from
for a lifetime.
Maybe when bones finally
splinter on impact,
maybe when the heart stops –
stops for good –
maybe then
I’ll find some peace some night.
But that isn’t tonight.
You couldn’t give me
shelter
for when storms rumble in
I’m the only home I know
and I wouldn’t let you in.
I couldn’t.
This rebel is merely a mask.
Leather and neon lights,
cigarettes and cheap whiskey,
It’s all a kaleidoscope illusion
piecing together a montage of
a bad girl I’ve never been.
So, I keep running.
My soul keeps tumbling
in ebony clouds full of
ghostly faces melting with the rain,
silhouetted by strikes of anguish
to come and bellow as they leave,
stumbling on this ledge
after finding the bottom
of another bottle, another
pack of cigarettes down,
for poison in my veins
numbs it all away.
I don’t want to cause you
any pain
but I don’t want to
live this way
and it’s time to step off this ledge,
leave the poison to
fester and dissolve.
I can’t forever be at war between
my own shelter and storm,
stoic somewhere in the rain,
waiting for the day when
wildflowers weave their way
back into this soul.
It’s time to grow them
for myself.
