Gunshot

Several years ago, a dear friend of mine decided that the only way out was to kill herself.  It took me a long time to get past it and I found an outlet for my anger in poetry.  This is an old piece and I’ll preface this by saying that I was very upset when I wrote it, but I think it gets the point across of what the people who are left behind think when someone takes this route.

 

Gunshot.

Body lying limp

like a broken doll

still and forgotten

in a puddle of glistening red

and silence.

That was your answer?

To destroy yourself

in an explosion

of anger

and pain

and regret.

And yet,

there you lie,

still and silent

with the wound of both

the gunshot

and your anguish

neither one healed.

Advertisements

Sacred Space

For the home we once shared,

the sacred space between the walls,

the floor which shared our feet,

Those windows will forever frame

the memories we shared beneath that roof.

 

For the green grass soft beneath our toes,

the tree that shielded the sun,

and sheltered from the rain,

Those branches will forever hold,

the love we exchanged beneath.

 

For the void that you left,

when you closed that door forever,

and locked it tight behind you,

The memories trapped within those walls,

are also trapped within me.

Red Wine Hangover

Sunlight trickles in, inducing familiar pain at the middle of my forehead,

the remnants of cheap red wine on my breath.  My fist finds the

alarm clock, halts the buzzing, stale and rhythmic. Red binary eyes

staring at me, startled at me, angry at me; it was only doing its job.

Roll from bed, trapped in sheets, dropping the glass that I brought

into the bed. Sea of red, dry and dark, stains the white. I’ll be

pissed when I’m awake enough to care.  Stumble through doors.

Not this one, or this one.  Where the hell is the bathroom?

Down the hall to the right.  Not the left! Now

I remember. Take a seat on the throne,

an ecstatic moment of pure relief.

Forget to flush.

Cool running water

splashing my eyes;

find the towel.

Where’s the towel?

The damn towel!

Screw the towel!

Find the kitchen,

and the Advil.

Douse with water,

lots of water.

One tall glass,

another half full

one half empty.

Green bottles everywhere.

Broken wine glass

with no stem,

almost discovered with

my bare feet.

Shrug my shoulders.  I’m still drunk.  Back to bed.