Tides move in swiftly
when the moon has to let us know
how powerful she is
and her phosphercsecent glow

Howling songs in the distance
like southern cicadas do
asking her to forgive us
holding hands next to you

I was born down south
I was raised by the heat
Cornbread in my mouth
I crave a country beat
When I go to the river
And the levy breaks
Don’t blame me
for all the mess we create

Southern cicadas
you sing lullabies
Like Mother Nature
You overwhelm the skies
But in the morning
And three cups of coffee
The only rhythm is my heart beating trepidatiously

The waitress says I cannot sit here anymore
I reply that I can not, will not move
I am waiting on a friend

The ice has melted in my whiskey
The whiskey has evaporated from my whiskey
My eyelids are stuck to my forehead
I can see my face in the shiny countertop
It looks like half a rotten lemon and a pillar of salt

“Give it to me straight miss, Is he coming back?”
I ask to no one in particular , the waitress is scowling and crawling away
While she is on all fours I ask aloud, again with bitterness
“You can be the other woman without trying, I only take what is left of him after he has given his all to her. Have you ever seen eyes that can no longer see you?”
She stops and nods :I pick up leftovers for a living miss”

I fall back into bed sheets too soft for my skin and blankets that are too thick
i sweat and they stick to my fingertips
weigh me pin me down
He is beside me and his waist is mine to claim
Trepidatiously , I snake my arm around him he does not move into me but neither does he move away

“Too polite” The waitress has refilled my glass and is ******* on a lemon on the stool next to me
“Men should say good bye when they want you to leave”
I take a drink “He all but slammed the door in my face. There is nothing worse than a dog that won’t leave even after it has been shot.”

Once he held onto my wrist and buried his face into my neck , unfortunately he carved a spot in it that only he can fill
Now he calls out for her when he lies in my bed and I smile awkwardly
Now he leaves me in diners so long i become a part of the decoration

The waitress is spraying me with citrus cleaner and wiping me with a rag
“to get the black off” she claims

I make him food and he moans that it tastes like her
He touches places not meant for him but i dare not do the same
he says be careful  and I run into streets blindfolded

my feet trip over themselves to get to where he is
the waitress says “he ain't playing chase with you, he is running to someone”

I hug the bits of flesh he let fall in his haste to get to her
and sip my whiskey till it spills back out my mouth.

The waitress refuses to clean it up.

⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm⚠
~
Over the years,
I have cultivated
many an intriguing
hiding spot for my sorrows--
concealed inside of
my phone case;
pressed between
the mattress and the box spring;
wrapped in paper towel
and tucked trepidatiously
beneath my bra strap.

But of them all,
my favourite
was the book--
some fantasy novel
whose name I can't recall,
hollowed out with
a pair of scissors
and a ballpoint pen
to make room
for the razor blade.

It was a secret
that had authored
an entirely new meaning
of paper cuts.

In that moment,
I couldn't have felt
more like a tortured artist.

I couldn't have felt
more like a
poet.