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

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