The grip on my disposable razor
Is tighter than the grip of my own reality.
Reflection distorted by the humid condensation,
I still see my hands trembling as I shave.
I still see the designer bags under my eyes.
The familiar aroma of shaving cream,
Paired with the sobering twinge
Of the nicks from my razor.
The haphazardly spilled pills,
Horizontal bottles in the medicine cabinet.
White-knuckling the porcelain sink,
Decorated with dried toothpaste and the blood of my gums.
I reflect to my reflection
Distorted by drip drops of tap water,
“Am I still myself?
Or simply a prospect of my own delusion?”
“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?”
I can tell you where,
Drive to the church off of the gray gravel road.
There you will be greeted
By dim witted deacons and the dead.
Parades of pink lily slippers
Masquerades this melancholy sensation.
Surrounded by galleries of gravestones
Belonging to both babies and Baby Boomers.
You can visit.
Surrender your problems to the dirt,
They are dead,
They cannot hear what you are saying.
It was the hardest month of my life,
Deprived of what made me whole.
All I had were
The shakes and copious cold sweats.
I had to look at myself
In the mirror everyday.
With the gripping reality
That there was no escape.
No phone, no way out.
Just fellow victims
Of our own self sabotage.
Whom became my family.
With cigarettes and sodas in hand,
We gathered around the plastic picnic table.
I lost myself in their stories,
They lost themselves in mine.
Slowly the insanity left me,
It truly does get better.
When we went to university,
There still was a you and me.
Then autumn came.
Nothing ever stays the same.
All I can think about is how
I never deserved you at all.
The care for you should not have followed
The surplus of pills I swallowed.
It’s my fault…
My heart tends to sink,
When those autumn leaves fall.
What the world
Sees you as.
Your posture is poor
With shoulders hunched.
You are too morose
To see the world
Explode in color behind you
You could be a prince,
Donned in pastel garments,
Yet, you see yourself as a peasant.
And especially lonely.
With my head held high,
I jaunt down the avenue.
The heels of my feet unsteady,
“This sailor still has his sea legs!”
I gargle as my body stumbles,
Face bloodied on asphalt and rubble.
Even though my mug is mangled,
My bottle is intact.
And that is what truly matters.
The glass cannot break;
Shred my being to tatters!
Before I part from my everlasting bond
Of neck in hand.
One last swig!
Before I head out to sea.
I may drown…
But there’s no drink in the deep.