the unkindness of ghosts
this one frustrates me. it feels unfinished in a way I can't explain. i spent a month writing this poem (the longest one's ever taken me)
in red pen (perfectionism's perfect quotient) spending half saturdays throwing up with nothing to apologize for begging for a rest (begging for the rest) splitting hairs over two words and a half second (dropped screams over 2.5 seconds) scalpels dissecting pure poetry (you are irreparably broken) reciting a rhyme, spitballing a rhapsody spelling bee spillover begging for a plea in sunday's best (fracturing like a puzzle piece) only bringing about the end in sodom's sweet relief (every name given to me has it’s halo) for fellowship, love never felt like this (damned if you do, damned if you don't) two black holes and a hellhound from loving this hard two black eyes and four broken homes from running my mouth this much (peace is nothing to live for) michael's past presence runs prescient (no love lost between intertwined fates) stutter stepped grief showing both faces wrath and rage, brothers carcerally incinerated justice and revenge, sisters on the same plane fantasy bellows my feet (maybe we could fix it, maybe this one is different) frothing at the mouth, jaw mincing mindless words on dull teeth benzodiazepine never tasted this much like blood on the wall socratic seminars of lost innocence a small town's pain lost to stagnation (a bonfire's forever rage consumed by your unwillingness to change)
in another life, i would have loved you watching the drum spin over as the soap suds spittle through another broken washer "how much did you get back?" "you know, it's rude to ask someone about their money."