i'll be your beer-soaked, ashed on bar,
i'll be your cloudless night sky
in january, baby.
so cold it burns.
i'll be your pirate ship
and your shores,
your weapon of mass destruction
and all the mountains i could level,
i'll be the pack of cards
we lost
under your bed.
i will be your final resting spot,
your casket and your headstone.
"Here lies someone who was
torn by love
so many times
it's a miracle we could bury his body."
honey i tried so hard to be your
candle in the sun.
light against light.
something so clean about it.
but i just got turned into
the north wind that
caresses your shoulders
on the walk to class.
not even noticeable
anymore.
not even raising goosebumps
on your
spine.

i pour myself another flask
tilt my head to the heavens and choke it down
as if to say 'that one's for you mom'
the gulps of jack honey that kiss my stomach
become a bitter reminder of the things that i relinquish in sobriety
they ask me about my coping skills and lately
i nit pick, mock, and overanalyze
see, i am much more bitter than the poison i swallow
yet it will never occur to anyone that i have a void in my heart the size of kansas
i take another swig, feel the whiskey warm my cheek, and
close my eyes to imagine my mother's hands cupping my face
as if to subtlety remind me that i'll be alright
but that never corresponds to the way that i've felt since that night
i stand in front of the mirror bearing a shocking resemblance of her
my eyes tilt down a little and my lips are thin, just as hers were