Kelsey
the breathing
I lift the final swig of blood
feel it reach it's way down my mouth
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the scar to pour you another.
I think of how my eyes scream
every time I let the blood down me.
Then I scrape down at my hands --
speeding -- scratching the glass of wine --
and think of how these were the ribs
that should have chased you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep running
why I raged your hell, sunk your rain.
I remember how you longed your way
through me. You journeyed me
from the inside out, and i kept coming back.
I let you watch me, and now you've
gnawed a hole through me. I loved it.
Now I have to talk myself of the cat,
and my mouse is believing between the
knives in the book nestled in my heart.
But I have to scrape more. The breathing
doesn't last as long as i do(es).
---
Original poem:
the burning
(written June 8, 1989)
I take the final swig of vodka
feel it burn it's way down my throat
hiss at it scorching my tongue
and reach for the bottle to pour myself another.
I think of how my tonsils scream
every time I let the alcohol rape me.
Then I look down at my hands --
shaking -- holding the glass of poison --
and think of how these were the hands
that should have pushed you away from me.
But didn't. And I keep wondering
why I took your hell, took your poison.
I remember how you burned your way
through me. You corrupted me
from the inside out, and I kept coming back.
I let you infect me, and now you've
burned a hole through me. I hated it.
Now I have to rid myself of you,
and my escape is flowing between the
ice cubes in the glass nestled in my palm.
But I have to drink more. The burning
doesn't last as long as you do.
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