delta

delta


the curling tendrils of dawn wrap around my throat- choking me and caressing my face, whispering to me "boy, the morning is so lovely, won't you wait for us? won't you stay up with us and smile as the sun cleaves the horizon?" and i am a sucker for sweet talk so i do not resist. i fight the dichotomies of living alone without being alone or sleeping without falling asleep or spending time in the waking hours without growing lonely, and my mind in the blackening hours of unconsciousness turns to the archives of what has happened over and over again.

and i cannot help but wonder what she is doing tonight or how much she is drinking as of late and who she is fucking like she fucked me over. i am wondering where she will bury her dead and if she will mourn and weep the tears from watering cans or if she will take firm root in the dirged dirt and wither over and die in the hands of her dead, dark, diseased shadow.

and i wonder why the train tracks came to such an abrupt halt, the rusted wheels grinding to a still and when the heavens parted and i saw clearly. and then i come to find it was little more than pretty words on paper like my birth certificate or high school diploma- ripped open and sucked dry by vampire promises and peace treaties. and morning horrors like the midnight moors of zombie-eyed reading and humming alone, and smoking at three am alone, and jabbing my finger with a needle to keep away from sleep

because sleep is the enemy; it will cradle you and sing to you and rock you softly- and will spit you into waking hours of an empty bed and empty room and empty life with a porch you smoke alone on at three am and a needle you prick your thumb with to know you're still awake and a flask full of bourbon for emergencies only and the molehills of laundry and the mountains of books and the gentle hum of the empty fridge singing the praises of the night, the liturgy of sleeploss in the hours of the death of the love that never was.