the happiness was only a spur of mania
I wish I was the sun
the high wears off and I remember my skin
as he flicks his cigarette out the window.
you are the front porch light
that bathes the street in a nauseating yellow.
I dream of fields of flowers I can die in
stupid and empty.
stupid and empty.
swallowed in the discomfort of this aching body
a deer sprawled out in the middle of the road,
maggots gnawing at the skin- once full of youth
stumbling through June- time seemed to stop.
writing poems I won’t show anybody,
I won’t tell anyone I’m sick.
I just hope I remember this summer spent in hell.