I refuse to feel a feeling
use the booze to souse the healing
in a juice that stymies real
lingering desirous reeling.
I am dealing with the painful
stab of drab, obtuse concealing.
Scars have settled on my arms
revealing harm in their unsealing.
I’m used to feigning that I’m well,
the game of hiding in my shell.
Can’t quell the echo of the knell
that sings I’m here, that flame of shame
that burns the blame into my bell.
Nothing on the outside
nothing on the inside,
nothing on the inside,
nothing, nada. Dry-eyed,
I always laugh the hardest
when I’m trying not to cry.
My chest heaves like I’m sobbing
and I swear that I could die.
We’re not the same; I’m not my pain.
The dope, my brain, a mean quatrain,
Hopes dopamine is seldom seen
And keeps on preening til serene.
I’m wrapping gashes with caffeine
to stay awake til dreams convene
for hope to cope with grey routine.
But cutting never leaves the scene,
and I am bleeding out unseen.
Without reprieve, nerve cells deceive
to tell of deserved Hell and grieve.
Take sertraline in quarantine,
sober up, and then stay clean.
Nothing on the inside.
Nothing, nada, dry–eyed.
I always laugh the hardest
when I’m trying not to cry,
and I’m never ever crying—
there’s just something in my eye.
Pues, como water for cocoa
boiling over before oil kisses pan,
I’m in the weeds— no legs to stand.
Salt spoiling plans to plant sans soil
leaving no more plots of land to toil,
Just earthen pots for roots to grow—
a dearth of fruit, nothing to show.
Pray tell, what good is brine for guests?
How should I know— anyone’s guess.
Cooks cook and feed, but never rest.
Alone, I laugh the hardest
And I laugh and laugh and laugh
’til a pain runs through my chest
inciting need for some witchcraft.
To holy man, mole manna
Decirá: <<Sana, sana,
If not today,
quizás mañana.>>
Nothing on the inside?
Nothing—
not a dry eye.