As he looks down at his blood-laced spit

He thinks about heartbreak,

feeling the uncomfortable pain

that, in his extensive life experience,

He’s learned doesn’t come from the heart, at all. 

The heart is simply a mechanism that 

keeps the blood pumping, with no appreciable

connection to “love” and “feelings”. 

It’s his stomach that’s really tuned in. 

From sickly to sleep, growling undercurrents of acid 

and lined paper are concealed beneath the soft brick of

neglected skin

where cold words slide into his gut and 

sit, refusing to melt.

He thinks about his decisions and how

they haven’t been so great, lately.

How most of them are made on a barstool downtown,

where last year, a familiar villain

crept into the edges of his vision.

Between waves of smoke and polluted air

sat a familiar voice he hasn’t heard in 15 years

and can’t help but wonder where its been.

A man that has only given him 

Good athletic genes and

20 siblings he wouldn’t know

if they slapped him in the face.

They say the sting of your father leaving you

eventually fades,

but it hasn’t, and the sting turned into flying fists

and words,

and unfortunately those words

had sharpened edges

that still wont sit well in his stomach

or dissolve fully.

It’s an abysmal high, this regular life,

And it’s nothing like the movies.

Before he leaves, he tips the bartender,

wondering if she’ll blow it on 

blunts and booze 

just like anyone else in this town would.

I look at him, my feet dangling

from the stone wall they hung from

as his feet rested comfortably on the ground. 

Mythical attributes hang like false medals

pinned to his bare and bloody chest.

Cocaine residues dry up his beaten nose

as his hands touch his thin skin, and he tries

to remember his youthful desires

As he looks down at his blood-laced spit. 

-TS

2 months ago  /  0 notes

Tequila

Tequila

5 o’clock smells like the weeping and 

moaning and gnashing of teeth.

Like crimson heels and

Tearing through closets to appear worthy of sin.

Sinning.

I’m not religious, but at a young age

my mother taught me right from wrong.

I’ve since learned that the forbidden apple

Leaks with lust

and my mouth waters for it.

Some say that the fiend

Is the dark made flesh,

But perchance it doesn’t take

A breathing form, at all.

Maybe it’s just the dark that

We allow into our flesh.

The greatest pact between human and Fiend

Is that of Faustus,

but there are many others

And some are barely remembered.

My sin? Tequila.

We put on our pearls and

Leave for the taxi that waits outside.

The bouncer waves by our familiar faces

As we head straight to the seats near the pool table.

I’m already drunk but

Lauren orders tequila.

Perhaps the real sin would be

Turning down a free shot.

As I rub salt into the wounds on my cracked winter hands,

The devils perfume ascends from

My glass to my nose,

Causing me to look at Lauren like I’ve

Already sucked on the bitter lemon wedge

That still rests between my fingers.

Lemon nectars pour down 

Into my already salted wounds

And remind me of the clock and

How it’s still ticking.

Before I can comprehend the thoughts that

May or may not be in my head,

My mouth salivates from the dissatisfaction

Of salt on my tongue.

The rest comes quick:

Tequila.

Lemon.

We know the routine because we’ve danced

with this devil so many times.

Too many times.

How many times?

I awaken to battered kneecaps and

Greasy homefries that fill my plate.

Everything smells like tequila.

Everything smells like mystery bruises,

Empty wallets, and realizations that

I should have listened to my mother.

That stonewashed mistakes are actions

And actions are yours whether you

Recall them or not.

For blacking out doesn’t eradicate anything.

It conceals it.

And indeed, the greatest trick the Devil

Ever pulled was convincing the world

He does not exist.

-TS

2 months ago  /  0 notes

stay hungry, stay free & do the best you can

(via fuckyeahgaslightanthem)

6 months ago  /  82 notes  /  Source: bil0xiparish