I Bleed in Scribbles

sound echoes when

there's nothing there

to hold it,

and I keep bouncing

between the banks

with tears that stutter

on the way out,

so I let them fall

like angels

ready to rise

like demons from the dirt,

and my dreams

are murdered

by the creeping dawn,

and I can't click my heels

to get home,

just these dull thuds

that ache more

with each attempt,

holding a pillow

I haven't used,

and whiskey could teach

me to bleed straight,

instead of scribbling

bloody messages

for no one.

and it's me.

but I can't read

like I used to.

though I have

enough scars

so all you see

is a grin.

hello. nice to meet you. fucker.

will you join me in the field?

we can murder roses

and lay them on my name,

and you can give a speech

about the tragedy

of my heel,

about the sound of me drifting

as I run from mud,

tripping over the crispy halos

I let break without a fight.

and when it shatters,

we'll see havoc become confetti,

in a beautiful celebration

of wasted breaths

that shimmer on the forest

of my life,

growing fresh upon the rot.