Just because you “live” here doesn’t mean you are fortunate.
I cannot describe why this is troubling, though it is pervasive and profound.
I don’t encounter this elsewhere.
Though maybe this is about history.
Seems everyone I know here is actively sedated,
or completely oblivious to the reality of progressive demise,
in its full heart wrenching FX.
Discretion may be “the better part of valor”,
but “misery still loves company”.
The blinding of dying stars we can’t even see as
The memory imagining: points of light, and phantom limbs.
I have recently found my friends:
Unconscious as though dead,
drunk and/or dope sick,
picking skin till bleeding,
draped with a bright orange parka a famous mountaineering friend owned
before dying in an avalanche;
they are still buried beside each other in suburban Boulder.
This is no longer a rescue, it’s a re-covery…
Covery… covering in nylon neon.
Lost and found:
An effigy at the kitchen table.
She was slumped within 2 hours, blond hair shrouding her face,
a girl offered a line of cocaine, and it revived whatever could have been alive.
I witnessed it, but couldn’t survive,
only because I chose to save myself instead.
Doing no favors by pretending
we are animus dolls with lulls of coherence.
Gasping breaths in expert testimony,
The way mascara runs concurrently
with vomitus lip stick prints. Trace evidence…
Sometimes I still blink, though my eyes are always dry.
I’m a bad person, for being here.
I also don’t give 2 flying fux,
Because: “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”,
see also: Suffer longer.
I left for too many reasons:
I was surrounded by corpses,
and it still hurts to watch them slowly succumb
to lust and dust…
Lights out, dawn,
and this is why I was always afraid of the dark:
It’s not that I don’t know what’s there,
just that the deepest alone never was the scariest.
It claims you as its own, and you are never really home.