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Dylan Baker Jul 2013
This city has torn me to pieces
and scattered the unwanted bits
through these cobblestone streets.
Through 3 a.m. deserted corridors
and starless skies,
through the litter and muck
along the banks of its timeless raging river.

A haunting memory
is left behind a locked bathroom door
in a new friends apartment on Lyon St.
across from the empty museum.
The rumors of attempted suicide
still linger in the air.

The shell of a young man
is found in the basement
of a crumbling house on Veto St.
Swept beneath the rug
under a pile of beer bottles
and empty fifths.

A scarred outer layer of skin
is found in the drain
of a ***** clawfoot bathtub,
in a dark studio apartment
on the corner of Douglas and National.
Along with a well read copy
of Bukowski’s Women
and a bowl of maggot infested rice.

A heart,
freezer burned and half thawed,
is found on the counter
in a split level apartment
on Lydia St.,
just before the hill.

As for the rest of me,
that I’ll leave for us to find.
Maybe somewhere on the back roads
from there to here,
in the hazy twilight
fit for discovery.
Dylan Baker Jul 2013
You envelop me like the smell before rain.
Like the sweet clean air,
that drifts in pockets through the breeze.
And like the low steady rumble of thunder,
I want to be whole for you.

So I’ve been throwing my broken bits to the birds
hoping that they’ll be washed away in the first thaw.
I’ve been screaming my fears into the ocean
like some vacant lot,
and waiting for answers like bottles
to drift in with the tides.

There were nights
I would tear razorblades across my skin
and watch the blood pour from my mouth,
but tonight I am setting my scars to the wind,
like sails,
and I pray that they will carry me home to you.

You are wherever I have always been,
where I am now,
and where I dream of being tomorrow.
So there is no shame then,
when I lay myself to rest
in your palms.

There are moments I reach out to you,
to put my hands on your skin,
to feel your warm soft touch,
pulsing through me like morphine.

So right here and now,
let me come clean before you.
Let me rinse myself of my conclusions,
and rid you of my past.
You know there were times I wanted to die.
But my days are no longer numbered,
and you know now my wounds,
they have been healed.

Do you remember the night you brought me home?
Well the story is written out here on my arms,
every scar the first letter of your name,
and together they now spell the word “alive.”

— The End —