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Slaughter Beach, Dog
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Bed Fest
You wake up.
You're sweating.
You know you should've stayed out, but it's dad's car, and with one more you wouldn't have cleared the roundabout.
Safe now.
It's over.
Clammy slumber detoxing.
The warm haze is long gone and it's as bad a time as any to think about him.
White caps to gray sky and you took all that dramamine.
The worse end of a bad dream when you lost your heart at 17.
Consigned it to your brother, he swam it two miles out off shore.
It's aching in his hands, pining from the ocean floor.
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Fingers laced around those veins, casualty of a cold campaign.
The day he left you were ensnared, your soul held in suspension there.
Maybe he's the blood and ink; the time you waste at the bathroom sink.
You learned to decorate his hell with the awful things you tell yourself.
You lost your way.
Dark cloud in a black hole.
Your veins all swell, the words appear.
You bleed out on your bedsheets when you say out loud that you can't stay here.
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