Rather convincingly,
A worried glaze stretched over her eyes
And the joints in her fingers twitched as her
Body slowed over dirty couch cushions
Too many sips in, enough courage
Made her forehead drip tiny capillaries
As smooth pads found their way
Up and down the inside curve of her arms
Rusty orange glow spotlighting the desk surface
The sound of my pencil tip breaking
“Can I tell you something truthful?”
I look over. Permission granted.
“Your writing makes me
Want to cut my wrists.”
Gin-stained eyes, like a glossy photo
Dull reds in the blackness of a dark room
Ying. Yang. Light. Dark.
Where and what is beauty without
The dark humor of disaster.

07/07/2010

Posted on 07/07/2010
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