Haemorrhaging You.


I have an idea about me. It’s emergent, from the muscle in chaos you left me to carry.

The soul of a poet, with the pathology of an addict. Alcohol and Cuban smoke infuse me, not merely diseases anymore, but requirements. Compelled to bleed ink because I was born to. I didn’t chose words, they found me as a child and stayed with me; my only constant faithful companion. Writing doesn’t reflect life. It is life: inherent, dissected, reconstrued and reconstructed. Every breath disseminated. A process that permeates the marrow. My words are my weapons and armor. My sword and my shield. Chiselled in carbon, like candied letters in a stick of seaside rock.

Butchered, like the livestock you made of me; you’ll find a litany of muses, while I poison myself with blended scotch. Unwilling to escape the veins, seep mercifully from my eyes like saline wishes never again to be fulfilled. Do your cold blue eyes ever leak?

Another chill sip, to clarify my intentions. The essence of such horrific grief, distilled into fifty millilitre hits.

Bartender frowns as I signal another, but refills my shot glass with Black Label. Silent concern curls his lips, beneath an immaculate moustache, even as his aura screams ‘enough now’ at me in tones only adversity-boxed ears could pick out.

Take another hit. Dopamine’s too thin in alcoholic blood. Nothing quite like the first sip to trigger the descent. Dull ache reaches out with grasping subcutaneous tendrils. Immune system fights your infection. Something heavy shifts, lurching inside like the groan of a disengaged audience. Internal bleeding is a see-saw. Bitterness on one end, Longing sat on the other…

As I fight to be free of you, my dull cow eyes cast to the bar, as I collect my shit and pay the tab. Passport and driver’s licence clutched in liquored arthritic hands. I smile through the slowly elongating teeth of resurgent self-respect. It occurs to me your name is still in my passport – under familial contacts.

Hopefully if I die in a plane crash, they’ll still call you.


6 thoughts on “Haemorrhaging You.

  1. “Hopefully if I die in a plane crash, they’ll still call you.”

    This line in its blunt simplicity is a poison tipped dagger.

    “Writing doesn’t reflect life. It is life: inherent, dissected, reconstrued and reconstructed.”

    If this isn’t the truth, I don’t what is.

    Liked by 1 person

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