Chafe

Broken glass, that used to be a vodka bottle,

decorates Wilda Avenue—and a heart

that used to be my own,

decorates an overturned Christmas tree

in the grip of my living room.

 

A painting of orange, holding black,

hugs a canvas in my bedroom.

A sliding glass door I broke through

pierces the bottoms of my bare feet, but

I walk further; I walk down Wilda Ave., alone.

 

I garnish the asphalt with my lament,

new bottle in hand, slaying dragons the alcohol

brought to life—harming not a single hair

on the head of my heartbreak.

 

Instead, biting down with sober certainty:

it will be there in the morning.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s