Folds of Darkness

They’ll think the worst.
Driving with my baby,
Colt 45, they’ll pry
from your cold dead hands,
and from mine,
the poem I wrote
to make it romantic.

We knew too much
but nothing real,
like how some live
in the thick of it,
padded by riches,
oblivious
to back alley needles
and graffiti under bridges.

They’ll find meaning
on a touchscreen.
Autocorrect might suggest
a fitting phrase or two
of platitudes,
which read a little off
in their heads.
Emoji bookends
always add a nice touch
and bolster the mood.
Look at all the Likes.

What’s on my mind?
I still can’t show you
that side of me.
It would hurt you to see
the do or die of me.
Still-life, snapshots,
stop-motion in strobe lights,
blinding flickers of composure
illuminated from the chaos.
You can’t see what I hide
in the folds of darkness
inside my heart
when the flash is off
and the shutter closes.

You like to tell me
it’ll be okay.
Though you could never know
what “it” even is,
it settles your mind.
I tell you “I know it will”
because it makes you feel
like you fixed me.
Ones like me always seem
to end up with ones like you.

And ones like you always seem
to end up with ones like me.
Deep inside I reach,
fumble for lies,
grip them tightly
behind clenched teeth.
Truth is harder to swallow.
You’ll never see it coming.
Death,
an event larger
than life itself.

Advertisements