We are connected, you and I, by
a thread, thin and winding through
the paths our respective lives have
taken. The ends stretch apart, only
to come weave themselves back together
into knots that sit in the bottom
of my stomach like a poison, rotting
me from the inside out. I’d say “at
least I tried,” but I don’t think
I ever did. I only tangled myself into
your life, and you were always too
kind to take scissors to the mess,
though now I wish you had. Because
this rope I have woven from the
strings of my past now sits in a
noose around my neck.

I’ve always said
words are all
I have
My only talent,
my ability to
bend
them, crafting
something to
show the
parts of my
soul
that would see
no light
otherwise

The words
flow
through my veins,
drumming in my
ears and nearly
driving me
mad
building up
and washing
over me like a tidal wave

And the only
way I
know
to keep from
drowning
is to open
a vein and
bleed
onto the
page

The old gods watch in muted
fury, their statues abandoned

to live on shelves instead of
temples, seen as reminders

of a more ignorant time, when
men needed guidance more

than truth. Men now believe that they
know better — their god of science has

replaced his forerunners: those who
guided Man in his early days.

Those who weep in anguish, but,
forgotten, can no longer even

speak.

And he checks an empty phone
alone in the dark
He’s learning that his wrists bleed the night
Sometimes it’s more than he can take
Sometimes she texts back

My gift of
writing
has become
a candle
once brilliant
illuminating thoughts
that would
otherwise remain
in the dark

But now,
the flame is
gone
and I am left
to try to
find words
in the smoke