Tracing Emptiness

Release trepidation

when crossing

splintered

wooden beams

spaced three feet apart

at the rusty

trestle bridging nowhere to never-ending

nowhere, in the small town I grew up in

next to the now abandoned city of my father,

at the site of a childhood

beating by an older boy with a 2 x 4.

 

Was it by chance that the nails protruding from the wood

were bent? Was it strange how I noticed, while raising

my bloodied hands in defense, how his weapon

matched the setting?

 

Years later,

the same splinters

tore through love

and fatherly flesh

via PCP disguised as weed.

I Killed Myself in a Parallel Universe

inane ideas and back pain

waiting for lips engulfed in ash

forbidden from viewing

 

and left out in the open

writing just to waste time

legalized dull drugs coursing through

 

black coffee, stale tobacco

christian girl, asian porn-star

making promises years ago

 

leftover meals lasting decades

this will end in tragedy

just another formerly extant human

 

cowardice prevents suicide and other pleasures

these socks are damp -as if there ever was an arid landscape

professing atheism by day and repenting at night

 

this headache will never fade, it isn’t pain

trivial suffering and yet escape deemed impossible

just an imaginary bullet lodged in the brain