scabs

 

 

I scratch the scabs

crack them open

once twice thrice

to remind myself

how great it hurts

 

there’s no drought—

beneath the dull cracked earth

a red river runs

 

I learnt to like

the lavish rouge so alike

your crimson lips

on a Friday night

 

I learnt to love

the budding rose that grows

slowly from the deathly white

 

I smell it at full bloom

like a wine taster

sniffing swirling

the crude ironic stench of my

aliveness

 

but the glass will never be half full

for the bastard sitting alone at a table for two

 

The Blobbing Fish.

Currently trying to put together a short story collection, which is why the blog’s been so inactive recently. hopefully this will make up for it 🙂 

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