Photograph
By E.J. Crowe
There’s a photograph in my skull—
not framed,
not real,
just scorched behind my eyes.
It shows me grinning,
sunlight behind me like a halo made of gasoline,
ready to ignite.
No weight in my stare.
No rot in my gut.
No ghosts in the corners.
A lie.
A pretty corpse of a moment
that never lived.
I rewrite it—
over and over—
like a ****** tracing veins,
searching for peace
in a place
that never existed.
But truth?
Truth is a blade
that doesn’t ask permission.
And when I wake—
I’m soaked in cold sweat,
jaw clenched so tight
my molars scream.
Sometimes I grind until my gums bleed,
coughing up iron
like my lungs forgot how to breathe
anything
but memory.
The past doesn’t haunt.
It infests.
It slithers inside me like black mold—
whispers behind drywall,
scratches under the floorboards
of my skull.
The pills?
Still call like old lovers.
The bottle?
Still sings lullabies
in a key
only I remember.
My thoughts come like stampedes—
hoofbeats in my ribcage,
crushing
everything
soft.
Sometimes I swear
my heart wants out—
wants to claw through bone
and hurl itself
into silence.
I’m a good dad.
I hold bedtime stories
with trembling hands.
I’m a good husband.
I kiss her forehead
even when I feel like a ghost
in my own bed.
So why does it still crawl?
Why does it still eat me?
The photo shifts again—
eyes go dead.
Smile melts into a snarl.
The background rots—
as if acid chewed through the film
and left nothing
but static and flies.
I smell bleach,
blood,
formaldehyde.
My tongue tastes copper
and regret.
The air grows thick—
with the stench of old hospitals
and failure.
My wife stirs.
I freeze.
I can’t let her see this version of me—
the one made of sand
and gasoline.
I stagger into the bathroom,
hands shaking
like addicts at sunrise.
I stare into the mirror—
but the thing looking back
isn’t me.
It grins.
It knows.
It’s waiting.
SMASH.
Glass explodes like a scream.
Shards dance through the air—
one kisses my cheek,
but I don’t flinch.
Can’t.
I’m too numb to bleed properly.
Too lost to be found.
The cut runs red,
but I’m already hollow.
Already fading.
Faith?
A joke with ****** punchlines.
Hope?
An echo
in a burned-down cathedral.
All that’s left
is me—
a leaking cracked faucet
in a basement
the world
forgot.
