“Burn”
See, these days I occupy my time
minutes . . .
hours . . .
days . . .
– not seconds, those are for chances –
whispering secrets with the uniquely rich cancer sticks,
with my mind trailing off into forgotten stories
IGNITING a fire
to make THAT part of me die –
over and over like a blister in the sun.
Burn.
You see, I am stuck
B E T W E E N
the lines that haunt me,
and those glowing embers,
the way that anger and pride kindle the hurt
the ebb and flow of wasting time,
of rising anxiety – which is automatically lingering these days.
People once told me that, that, it’s good, “it’s good to be seen”.
Behind these walls — this is why I hate to cry –
because, it DOESN’T MAKE YOU STRONGER
because, I’ve been told to let go,
to compromise.
I’ve learned how to calm the ego,
to savor freedom, but ATTACK – the silence surrounds me.
A calm flickers in the solitude,
into the hazy depths, I trace down
down
down
filter.
I just might, push the breakdown
In terms, like lines, and boundaries –
How can I describe … the darkness, the isolation, and the self-loathing?
Like a breathless papercut,
Let me lick these wounds into ashes, but …
Wounds into conversations, and inflections –
like fleeting mists.
Healing has this way
where moving forwards becomes a place,
where dialogue shapeshifts into the kind of happiness
that still chooses to wear a mask.
Hope moves like legs and fingers
twirling and dancing around
all lit up
trying to find themselves …
Intertwining like subversion,
like hollowed voices beckoning darkness.
And Time,
wraps itself around old thoughts slowly,
when looking into mirrors,
Hating the sin but missing the bad habits.
I used to hate the smell of it,
And the idea that it could actually kill me.
But the lingering nostalgia fades and wanes
the way a cigarette burns down
down
down
filter.
The pain and trauma
from the past,
from today
from tomorrow —
like smoke signals, cylinders of stories
which construct, and influx,
the way my mind clauses –
complicated little niches –
:: INHALE ::
Deep, just so I can collapse
these mother fucking lungs of feeling.
Burn.
Breathe.
My mind is a crowded place
These questions, like fears, little disarmed monsters –
This is why I choose to light up
these contexts, to keep old demons down
with every flick,
the sand and grit, smoke in chains that burn down
down
down
filter.
I make room for the healing.
I’m not a smoker, so I won’t say I’ll quit.
It’s not easy, you know – But, don’t worry about me.
This is why I choose
to let these cinders burn.
Even for the sake of metaphors.
— Sometimes, I miss the girl
who used to stand
in the dark corners
of bars
of alleys
with drink in hand
hiding behind black mascara and eyeliner
who was waiting to be noticed,
who was waiting to be loved,
who was waiting to die every night – down
down
down
filter.
Sometimes, I miss her
the black and blues
the cuts and scrapes.
The scars,
the torment beneath the surface
. . . they remind me . . .
The storefronts.
The light poles.
The lies.
The excuses.
The need to know.
The desire to feel.
To touch.
To kiss.
To –
Burn.
Even in the remains . . .
The heavy smell of rubber,
rising above the ethanol
and water, she cries
(I cry)
clutched by the Jaws of Life –
red and white and blue lights,
wrapped around her like the paper that burns down
down
down
filter.
I can still feel the cold concrete
beneath my fingertips.
The eaten orange peels
and empty milk boxes
that lined the holding cell floor in Central Bookings.
The sound of the guard’s keys jingling as she walked down
down
filter.
She, at least, knew herself.
She knew the price of freedom.
I, still haven’t found
what I’m looking for.
Burn.
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