for years, i turned a blind eye.
sweeping caps beneath the rug,
until first light cracked,
then by morning,
it still wasn’t enough.

i drank, after greeting the day,
sometimes with coffee,
often just straight,
took a taxi to work,
then drank more on my break.
customers adored me,
or who they thought i was —
my second self
with blurred edges,
slightly louder than the dark.

some i crossed paths with
tried so hard to help —
to drag the demons out.
but the deeper they dug,
the harder i pulled away,
instead.

i’d sketch pretending on my skin
with ink from an earthy red.
dressed up for therapy,
clouds trailing like a veil —
midnight fantasy
chased with violet gin.
i called it survival,
but it tasted like sin.

spelled my sorrows on the carpet —
each drop a false reprieve.
and whilst they dripped
like honeyed mercy,
no one asked about the burn.
now bare, without prayers,
i’m an offering at your altar
after swearing i’d never return.

Am I my own desires?
Bound to jump on my instincts
My body stripped
My eyes devoid of light
The same motions we used to make
With a stranger I just met
My consciousness altered
Reality has become a dream
But when I sleep I have none
What choice do I have
When it’s between the devil and my grave?

You are on a very long list
of those who can’t though
they persist.

Learn the lesson of Achilles
heel: there's something that doesn't want you here.

You hold tightly the images
of misguided faith, role
models and illusory joy.
But graven images topple
as slow as dry rot and
Pandora quietly fills your
box of toys.

Your house is projected
and frozen in time.
Twenty layers of
wallpaper are peeling
your mind.

Rooms untouched like
100-year-old Mason
jar preserves. You can't
eat fruit kept for so many
years.

Your choice of worlds
kept the patterns; no
new beginnings mean
the same old ends.
You may not break all
the rules, but you sure
make them bend.

Grace seemed to touch
you as you walked a
mile or two seemingly
content. But no matter
how amazing the grace
was, you can't be where
you never went.

As long as scapegoats
hang on crosses all along
this highway like rows of
pigs hanging bloodless at
the slaughterhouse, and
as long as Western
religious pop culture icons
and other social images
replace what is real, the roadblocks and washouts
will continue to keep you
there. Achilles protected everything but his heel.


© 2025 Daniel Tucker

I find myself falling (Again, Again, Again)
I do not mean to fall—
(but the ground keeps tilting beneath me.)
I do not mean to want—
(but the air is thick with something sweet, intoxicating.)
I do not mean to hope—
(but their laughter sounds like a promise.)

I meet a stranger / and suddenly / my heart is writing love letters in invisible ink.
I hear a voice / and suddenly / my ribs tighten like a corset, squeezing out logic.
I brush fingertips / and suddenly / I am rewriting the stars for a future that does not exist.

It happens too fast—
(like a storm that appears from a clear sky, no warning, no mercy.)
It happens too often—
(like déjà vu, like a carousel that never stops spinning.)
It happens without permission—
(like waking up in a dream you did not ask for.)

I do not love them—
(not really, not fully, not yet.)
But my heart does not understand the difference between a spark and a wildfire.

And so I burn.
And burn.
And burn.

Only to find myself—
(again, again, again)
sifting through the ashes.

Its deeper than the rest
The solely solemn valley
The canyon of my blood
Full of love and tally
I feel it on my body
Like a needle protruding outwards
Sticking out from all the pain
I hope it will scar over
For then I can have a trophy
For the time where I was but
A ******* four leafed clover

Phantom drops of blood
Rolling down my leg
I feel it getting closer
To my knees and ankle true
What ever will I do
When the phantom reaches ground
And spreads it all around
That I am not unwell
But too far now to tell
It's not the pain I long for
But that phantom drop of blood
To make my legs sore
You do not sneak a peak
Without feeling that drop
Rolling down your body
Never will it ever stop
For the scars do not disintegrate
Only the blood

I’ll flush the blood
Down the drain
So the only known
Will be in my brain
It doesn’t hurt
To run my fingers
Down the lines
Of red like wines
I love the pain
But I know that
The know of it
Will make me splat

Mirror in the washroom, mirror in the hall,
who is the saddest, most tragic of all?
Me, me, me— our chant, our plea, our scroll.
We cry for heartbreak, curse what we recall,
mourn mood swings and childhood’s sprawl.
We share our feelings, raw and blatant,
talk as if we own sorrow’s patent.
An indulgent binge of trauma dumping
hailed as “growth,” with echoes thumping.

“Let down your hair,” the mirror said
"So, I may climb into your head."
We let the mirror live inside,
Fed it fears, we were meant to hide.
We center our every breath on “I,”
crown our pain and let it sanctify.
We kneel to our image like an altar
then robe our grief in saints for slaughter.

“The slipper fits,” the mirror lied
“So, dance until you feel alive.”
We twirl in dreams we can't escape
beneath a veil we cannot scrape.
The mirror smirks with every spin—
“Keep dancing. You’ve already let me in.”

"Just close your eyes,” the mirror sighed,
“The world will wait—just stay inside.”
And so, we did, in cushioned sleep,
clinging to the dreams we were fed,
And the world burned beyond our bed.

The mirror waits with breathless grace.
It doesn’t show. It holds our face.