Untitled

how to die a little
on the inside

shut the door
and close your eyes
as you cradle
yourself
on the floor

my love
the concrete is cold
and why are your
eyes leaking

didn’t they
tell you
that all you
have to do
is not
let them see
the black
pouring out

to not let them
hear
the sounds
that leave
your mouth
at night
when time
is just this thing
that passes
and wounds
are still wounds
are still wounds

Doctor’s Office

it smells of vomit
and cleaning products
red chairs packed together
like in a theatre 
but the drama is only
unfolding in my head
today

no stage
for actors
to faint on
or cry on
or die on

just
the smell of vomit
sliding doors
a splash of depression 
mixed with human decay
bodies decomposing
in a brightly painted room

what a show
i think
as i try digging
deep within myself
for that spark
they told me
to cradle
and hold on to

Spiders

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.
I was silent for a minute,
then looked at her again.

“I am afraid of
growing old before my time,
of waking up one morning
and referring to my youth
instead of living it.

I am afraid of being mediocre,
I am afraid of not living
every day to the fullest.

I am afraid of growing old
without him.
I am afraid that he will stop trembling
under my touch one day.
I am afraid of growing old in my ways,
of burning up before my time.

That is what I am afraid of.”

She did not speak.

“Does this answer your question?”

She smiled, and sipped her coffee.
“A simple ‘spiders’
would have sufficed.”