sometimes I wonder
what might happen
if the night sky
turns red

sometimes I wonder
how much better
I'd write
if I weren't on
my meds

circumstances
& slight of sanity
may perpetually
prevent it

but you can make
the damnedest
certain
the flames in those fields
will finally be
lit

maybe the storms
will awaken
what within me
is dead

& sometimes I wonder
what might happen
if the night sky
turns red

these days I
find myself trying
to remember
how to
burn


efficiently,


with an air of
almost seeming like
it was my
turn

but sleep supersedes
& when neglected
can impede

one's ability to
spark


so how did you
find me in
that deep, hollow
dark?


was it the left
second star?

was it the glow of my
smoldering cigar?

or was it the signal flare
I lit on top of that cop's car?

sometimes it takes the
smallest flames
to see

your fire is never as far
as it seems
to be


so on the second star
we'll meet;  
pass the cigar to
the beat
of all the squad cars
burning in the
street



& maybe just maybe
one day we can
live inside of our own

heat

come what, may?

it's that swallow of
guilt I can't help
but stomach;

it's the galaxy of rain drops
on the pre-dawn
painted window scene

& it's that look I
I know I'm being
given from miles and miles
& miles far
away

they've all settled
underneath my
skin

& everything that I
feel and fear
bears the burden of
a future sin
when all either wanted
was to just let the
other in

maybe I'm afraid of
the ever-fleeting
folly

maybe I'm afraid of me

but I can't seem to
help but rest my
tired bones
inside such a gentle
reprieve

"kudos to those who see
through sickness,
yeah..."

is this the final
exigency
I've so desperately
sought?

or am I still
writhing in the hell
of a life
& a love that was
for naught?


I called out caution
to the waves
& they called to me:


"may, come what?"

perhaps I was
always seeing it
in dreams;

in perpetual motion;
in the color of her
cheeks as she told me
goodbye.

‘cause I never
caught it in the lines
that curved around her
brows when she
told me what
hurt

& where

& when

& why



maybe it was somewhere
written in the
sky

or coded in her
fingertips
as she brushes the
hair from my
eyes


I wondered if she could
tell that I was
high


& that all of this dream
within a dream
would soon be ours in

𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒅𝒖𝒆 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

sorry

I'm

s
       p
             l
                    i
                         t
                  t  
           i    
      n          
  g                  

& I don't know
what that
means

.
.
.

to know me is
to know
I will probably never
make it through all 30
of these prompts

𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘺

to know me is
to know
I don't feel much regret
for those kinds of
things these
days

to know me is
to know I will always make
"the best of it," no matter
the depths of life's
intermittent
cuts

but...

to know me is
to know
an open wound;

to know the hell
I have survived
& continue to

to know that I bear it --
not with pride,
but with a vengeful tenacity

to know that in time
it will heal,
& with stunning vivacity

to know me is
to know

a cut will not ever
be the way that I
go

it's 5 am on a tuesday
late november
& cold as
hell

another day

a few hours ago I was
informed by message that
my father was
dead

another so it goes.

we weren't close but my
older siblings are pretty upset
I somehow saw it
& felt it would be swift

another altar candle

the only grief I have is for
my family.
my sister and brother's guilt over not
doing more hit too close

another "same as it ever was"

.
.
.
.
.