Eyes
the empty bottles pile
and my beaten vein protrudes.
my stomach is on the floor
as i lean back in the chair with
black wild
eyes and a new
cavity in my chest.
the ruts on my face deepen
with each syringe and I float
from cloud to cloud,
falling in between.
i stagger to the bathroom
with the
gun
under the
sink. tripping on a towel,
my skull destroys the
crystal mirror, which
snows in silver on the tiles.
i lay on the floor. and my
eyes,
seeing through the
red, meet those
in the silver shards:
i want to be that little boy
i want to be that little boy
Copyright © Tom Forke | Year Posted 2014
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