if you ever want to find me; I'll be looking at my
rain-rippled reflection in the glass, a ghost of me,
thinking back to when prescriptions dissolved in dirty dishwater
and the only red stains belonged to kool-aid.
It's raining outside. There's something about it,
like a dead man's bony fingers on his coffin lid, that
slips through me, like a knife through butter
(switch me to better stitches,
arrange the inept alignment of my aptitude,
hurry the hushed hurt until it oozes like a sca
For a heartbeat- one that stays trapped in
my atoms, wiggling like an electric eel- I am young,
copperburst eyes and strawberry lips hinting,
"Ring around the rosies, pocketful of posies,
ashes, ashes, we all fall down"
We all fall down- like the rain on the
other side of the glass, like the shovel of a
man digging his grave. I would lie in it, but
the trees outside would shake their heads in pity,
their beads sodden with tears,
they know how this will end.
(I'll be with the pill bottles, the scalpels, the nooses,
and every bad kool-aid stain that
will never wash away, only fade to pink
after a year has come and gone)
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