Decathect (4 of 30: 2018)

Rotting tissue multiplies to
four times its original mass,
spilling out over the arm rest
beneath the pale screen light.

The summer air is dry here
but that makes little difference when
hundreds of pounds of flesh
begin to liquify in the east-bay heat.

The stench,
and the stain you leave,
will be great— magnified by
weeks of hot-boxed confinement.

And after the alcohol, klonopin,
and self-induced sedation sing you to rest
I’ll purify the remains in fire and scatter the
ashes somewhere more peaceful than you were.

But I won’t be bereft, nor pained,
having already spent my years grieving you.
I’m still haunted by the skin you left behind—
that painful monument to the potential you wasted.

So, no, I won’t weep for you,
I won’t mourn you for one more second, instead,
I will take a moment to admire the beautiful grave
you spent most of your life digging…

And I’ll keep on digging my own
until I’m ready to lay down beside you.
Anything less would be an insult
to the hell we shared.

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About Moly

Average, boring, self-involved human. Twitter: @CultOfCocktails Facebook: facebook.com/MolyTov
This entry was posted in Poetry, Written, Written Work and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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