Salvage
gus stills
Posts: 366
salvage my drink
let it play wetly across
my unsaved lips
drowning my mind
the way the sky opens for
closed eyes, staring
into some abyss,
some greater meaning that I
cannot understand.
the first time I was
drunk I smiled out of fear.
I think I knew then
what was in store
for me, what I might find
hiding in red swirls,
currents of bitter
bliss that felt so right, to me,
my words wild and dead.
--though not dead in
the way you think of one
rotting peacefully—
no, I don’t mean that,
rather I think it’s a dying—
a slow unweaving,
a waking cessation,
shearing of connection,
a cutting apart.
but even in that
once I start I cannot stop,
leave it behind.
they say it’s a
downward spiral, a cliché,
to my young mind.
to me, it is a
process, a coming to grips
with lines, borders,
an image I run
from— or perhaps it is just
life’s terrible face
leering with hate,
seen through water’s surface
as her hands choke down.
let it play wetly across
my unsaved lips
drowning my mind
the way the sky opens for
closed eyes, staring
into some abyss,
some greater meaning that I
cannot understand.
the first time I was
drunk I smiled out of fear.
I think I knew then
what was in store
for me, what I might find
hiding in red swirls,
currents of bitter
bliss that felt so right, to me,
my words wild and dead.
--though not dead in
the way you think of one
rotting peacefully—
no, I don’t mean that,
rather I think it’s a dying—
a slow unweaving,
a waking cessation,
shearing of connection,
a cutting apart.
but even in that
once I start I cannot stop,
leave it behind.
they say it’s a
downward spiral, a cliché,
to my young mind.
to me, it is a
process, a coming to grips
with lines, borders,
an image I run
from— or perhaps it is just
life’s terrible face
leering with hate,
seen through water’s surface
as her hands choke down.
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