camel city spilled ink

a queer chain smoker's secrets

7 notes


I had a dream last night that we lived together.

But I couldn’t speak to you.

My mouth wouldn’t open.

My purple lungs crumpled and collapsed.

               My heart stopped beating.

Except this wasn’t a dream once upon a time.

It was my life.

And we moved into a house that belonged

To a praying mantis with orange hair and three cats

               And a leaky window over our bed.

And I got drunk every night

Because I was my grandmother’s

Wedding china, cracking under my own pressure.

I knew I would shatter soon,

               So I didn’t stop drinking.

And then I started swallowing pills

That I never told you about.

I took a palmful of hydro and oxy and vicodin

With a bottle of wine,

And I thought I was going to die

               In bed with you.

I would’ve been happy to die in a room with a kitten and you

And three cats outside the door.

I should’ve told you, but I didn’t want to be a scary story for campfires.

Instead I faced the window,

Watched the rain in the parking lot,


And you rolled over and wrapped an arm around me.

And I didn’t want to die there anymore.

So I said a prayer to the grass and the soil and every living thing

That was never GOD but always god to me,

               And I didn’t die.

And I kept you up with my restless limbs

And my confused breathing

I don’t know why I never told you.

               Maybe because the next night I was sober.

We wrapped up in each other like tentacled sea monsters

And I smelled your neck and kissed your tattoo and your face

               And I don’t remember much else.

Except that you saved me.

And I want you to know.

That you, with your tentacles and the ink under skin and the kitten that slept between us,

Saved me.

               Once upon a time.

Filed under poetry spilled ink 3/26/13 tranarrrchy

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