Today feels like fire,
smells like iron,
wears its pants low, hanging, slipping off the hips,
is blood edged arount my fingernails,
is bright primary and black, each sliding up next to the other,
companion guides, wordless.
—-
The seeping of oil on paper
the jam jar quietly containing black coffee
a bag of lavender
water through a straw.
—-
Today is a drug-minded sober body,
mine,
is as-usual clawing into the skin around my fingers, by now so scarred, so thick-skinned, my fingers are so red, so often asked of, “why are your fingertips purple?" such a faint violet, such a small count of millimeters raised, such beautiful fingers I would have, they say, if only I would stop bleeding them out.
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Today feels like fire,
smells like iron,
wears its pants low, hanging, slipping off the hips,
is blood edged arount my fingernails,
is bright primary and black, each sliding up next to the other,
companion guides, wordless.
—-
The seeping of oil on paper
the jam jar quietly containing black coffee
a bag of lavender
water through a straw.
—-
Today is a drug-minded sober body,
mine,
is as-usual clawing into the skin around my fingers, by now so scarred, so thick-skinned, my fingers are so red, so often asked of, “why are your fingertips purple?" such a faint violet, such a small count of millimeters raised, such beautiful fingers I would have, they say, if only I would stop bleeding them out.
finding old, old, old poems
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