eighty-eight
a solid month and a half of mental drought lead to sobbing phone call from someone I had forgotten, an old friend eager to rekindle, a web comic I had forgotten, and this...
eighty-eight
I can’t sleep anymore.
I lie in bed all night and picture
strong hands, fingers entwined in my hair
pulling my face back and smashing it down
into the windshield of a rusted eighty-eight
over and over again, like a gag reel
except nobody’s laughing.
Eyes hanging dully from bloody sockets
on chords of bloody synapse,
barely seeing the beautiful
spider web pattern in the broken glass.
Skin oozing drops and gouts of red
dotted with tiny sparkling shards of glass.
Cheeks sagging from cracked bone,
peeling off like old wallpaper.
Nose a twisted pulp of flesh and cartilage,
throbbing dully, a painful reminder
that I’ll never smell anything ever again
as I bleed out in the back parking lot
of an all night diner.
eighty-eight
I can’t sleep anymore.
I lie in bed all night and picture
strong hands, fingers entwined in my hair
pulling my face back and smashing it down
into the windshield of a rusted eighty-eight
over and over again, like a gag reel
except nobody’s laughing.
Eyes hanging dully from bloody sockets
on chords of bloody synapse,
barely seeing the beautiful
spider web pattern in the broken glass.
Skin oozing drops and gouts of red
dotted with tiny sparkling shards of glass.
Cheeks sagging from cracked bone,
peeling off like old wallpaper.
Nose a twisted pulp of flesh and cartilage,
throbbing dully, a painful reminder
that I’ll never smell anything ever again
as I bleed out in the back parking lot
of an all night diner.