Every morning I sit at the
kitchen table over a tall glass of water swallowing
pills.
(So my hands won’t shake.) (So my heart won’t race.)
(So my face won’t thaw.)
(So my blood won’t mold.) (So the voices won’t scream.)
(So I don’t reach for
knives.) (So I keep out of the oven.) (So I eat every morsel.) (So
the wine goes
bitter.) (So I remember the laundry.) (So I remember to call.) (So
I remember the
name of each pill.) (So I remember the name of each sickness.) (So
I keep my
hands inside my hands.) (So the city won’t rattle.) (So I
don’t weep on the bus.) (So
I don’t wander the guardrail.) (So the flashbacks go quiet.)
(So the insomnia
sleeps.) (So I don’t jump at car horns.) (So I don’t
jump at cat-calls.) (So I don’t
jump a bridge.) (So I don’t twitch.) (So I don’t riot.)
(So I don’t slit a strange man’s
throat.)
Every morning I sit at the kitchen table over a tall glass of
16 faves
·
Apr 16, 2014 9:42am
