his blood shot eyes

His blood shot eyes,

pounding fists against my door,

slurred speech – I should have known

not to open.

Clumsy body, lie to sleep,

instead he lay on top of me.

Like a child searching for a mother

to cast out demons from beneath the bed,

to me he turned his heavy head,

and I was suffocated by his need.

His shirt, a white flag,

hangs from the dresser.

My jeans, torn down their seams,

my wrist wears a bracelet of blood.

Still drunk of last night's decisions,

he rises in search of sobriety,

I lie,

in this muck of sin.

I did not consume insanity,

and yet was consumed by his.

I am dirtied with regret,

longing I had drank to my heart's content.

Outside, I walk, a flimsy picture,

barely terror, barely shock,

beneath the trees rain upon me.

I can only inhale when they're on fire,

like his blood shot eyes.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed