Maybe it’s the familiarity of what I once

enjoyed or maybe it’s the alcohol

acting as the conduit for this electrifying

relapse down memory lane since one wrong turn had

me at the door step of an addiction that

I long forgot about but I think somehow it’s different

this time, maybe my tolerance level has gone up,

since the buzz

just isn’t as strong

as it used to be.

Pour your pain into my mug.
Let it steep until it’s as bitter
as the red wine sipped by new lovers
or the coffee drank by the lonely man.
Let it steep until it’s too strong to taste.


Then let me sip it slowly
while my lips curl away in disgust.
Still, I’ll force it down ignoring
how tepid and foul
the taste of your pain coating
my throat might be.

I’ll breathe in the toxins,
allowing them to fill my insides with the wafting
vile stench of your struggles
until my head spins and my vision blurs.

Let me free you from your sorrow;
until it corrupts my heart,
intrudes my impenetrable armour,
eats me alive,
and rots me from the inside out.

You left and my bones turned to stardust

my heart to stone

collapsed on the bathroom floor

a pile of blood

your name the only thing

I spit from my lips

before I blacked out.


I called you

choking through blackened lungs

but you laughed and left me here

spit your poison in my wound


I awoke the next morning

with residue from the eight shots

of whiskey I chased down

in an effort to drown

the memories from the inside out

because your ******* face was still etched into

my ceiling from the night before.

Vision blurred by blinding rays

of amber coloured morning light

bouncing through the cotton curtain

climbing its way around the

valleys and hills of the body laying motionless

sleeping in its alcohol-induced slumber

contrary to the dust dancing merrily in the

golden yellow hues of the morning air

reinforcing the understanding of why

Van Gogh thought yellow

was the happiest colour.

It was late, of course, and the glow of the light
illuminated the dark shadows in the corner of my room.

Sitting with our limbs entwined
sipping on our second glass of wine,
we were discussing in our usual tired eye manner.
I watched as you pensively considered reincarnation.

“Maybe a blue jay or a lazy panda”, you said laughing
“or rather a busy otter or a black lab”.

I got quiet as I contemplated this idea.
Not sure whether I’d want to come back as an animal
or even another living thing.

While you raised your glass to your lips
I raised the question to myself and began to wonder
what it would be like to return as one of your ribs.

To be with you all the time,
perched quietly beneath the soft weight of your breast,
riding along under the soft fabric of your flannel shirts.

Maybe I’d return as your favourite rib,
if you even bothered to count,
which is what I did when you fell asleep that night.

The bare of your chest rising and falling,
gently firming and unfirming the shape of your cage,
hearing the slow of your breath as you relaxed.

My legs grazed the length of yours,
my fingers doing that crazy numbering thing
choosing which ribs I would like to perch
my reincarnated self between.