Sunday 3/05/2006 10:08:00 PM

Building the thorn from the point outward. It's no surprise there's blood at every interval.

But it's redder now. Wounds overlapping.

It snakes through every moment. Even those where it's not there.

We laid beside each other in the bed and listened quietly as the anger raged from the stereo. All my music was angry then. Because it was the only sound I could understand. I painted all those days using an empty palette.

We examined my fingers to see if the nail polish had changed. To reflect my mood. It never did change. Ever.

I'm too cold.

But that was back when I had nails long enough to color. Not chewed like they are now. Back when I could still feel with more than just skin.


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2018. All Rights Reserved.