Whiskey

I wonder sometimes if I’m sick.  What it means that I have a bottle of whiskey underneath my bed.  What does it say that I only fall for people I know I can’t have?  I pour my heart and soul into relationships with men and women older than me, married, taken, mentor, boss.  I pour myself out then close myself off.

I hate that when I look at the night sky, I don’t know if I’m looking at a star or a satellite.

I’ve lost my father, my grandfather and my grandmother, fallen out of love, then in love and then out of love, all in the span of a year.

I’ve been gutted. Cleared out and all that’s left are tendrils, hanging, reaching toward each other, trying to connect, heal.  Trying to form a new heart, kidney, lungs.

The only time I can feel anything is with something in my hand.

I’m bleeding internally and it hurts like hell.  My insides are throbbing.   But I can’t feel them.  Sometimes it’s like I’m numb.  Feeling and not feeling.  Phantom heart, phantom lungs.

I remember what it is like to feel.  And I’m sure I’ll feel again.  I do it sometimes.  Spontaneously.  I’ll realize I’m laughing, or smiling without it being forced.  I’ll feel an urge to kiss a cheek or hold a hand.  Tears will spring to my eyes and blur my vision.  Rage will burn like coals in my belly and I’ll be heated.

I’m a poet without poems.  I’ve writers block and words come out hollow.  I turn phrases and they’re heartless, soulless.  Where is my passion?

Where is my soul?

 

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