Slow Take

No matter how early I get home at night - I find

myself laying in the same spot at 12am

Then 1am arrives and I’m having the same

thoughts

Penning the confusion out on paper

Toying with a shiny razor

 

There’s a buzz in my head that sounds a lot

like mourning and it doesn’t disappear until

morning

There’s a fire burning on my wrists but I love

the color red

When the sun steals a peak into my window

my flesh is swollen and warm

 

My eyes haven’t adjusted as yet and I beg for

the moon to return

I cry for 12am so I can self destruct at 1am

My mind is ruined so my wrists are ruined

My wrists are ruined so my sheets are ruined

 

There’s that buzz again

There’s the sun again

When you look at me — am I smiling or

screaming out in pain?