A wine bottle
filled with keys
is all I drink.
I never cared
for the bitter,
sick taste of
old grapes,
taunting me.
But the bottle
fits nicely
in my hand
and I enjoy
the tang of
metal
on my tongue,
reminds me
of the blood
I used to draw
when you got
close.
Lip torn,
to kiss, or not.
To speak, or
be silent.
The keys,
I find them
forgotten
in crevices
of other
people's
lives, after
they've released
what had to be
locked away.
The edges cut
on the
way
d
o
w
n
...
Some part of me
is still soft, now
I can prove it
with the blood
I've coughed up.
Paint this truth
deep wine red,
with spare keys
jangling loudly
in my stomach
like the nerves
of my body, if
you'd listen to me.
But now when I
speak, you hear
silence.
You’re done
kissing me
and I taste
salt. Tears.
Still drinking
sharp keys from
a wine bottle,
hoping they unlock
something inside.


**V. K.