It’s been a while since I had something for the mic.
It’s been a rough few weeks.
I do think of what I write as therapy
Help that no one else can give me
A little relief --
A release from the memories
One invisible funeral at a time.
But these past two months hurt so bad
my brain couldn’t string words together.
I was just left there
my self help turned to scrabble tiles
spilling across the floor in every direction
under dirty clothes
in moldy cereal bowls
litter boxes that overflowed.
At first I am convinced
the clattery scattery pieces are my teeth.
I have to pick them up
clean them up before someone sees
but my fingers are numb
and I am torn between
throwing up or crying
while all the letters slip away.
I sit on the floor
pretending I can’t see the mess.
I float, still, above it all
on a shot of whiskey
while all the letters and words and muck
sink, swallowed by the sea
and I smile about it all
-- especially my teeth --
because what do I have to worry
about talking anyway?