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Monday, August 13, 2012


splinters in my feet
infected, pus infused
from treading boards
I cough, try to speak around the maggots squished between my teeth
made from ill-motivated butterflies
eyes blink against skin and I'm drowning
but at least it's in a pattern
at least it's driven

at least i think i have a purpose

for a little while I think maybe this is it
maybe I'll make it this time
I stumble
my hands blister on hot lamps
I tilt my head back
lick the tears off of my face because my throat is parched
and whisper
"when sorrows come
they come not in single spies
but in battalions."

I hear applause, somwhere

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