Whiskey by Danielle Dix

There is no hiding behind gates
of arms and shut eyes
as the mind mourns its murderer
and the lungs ache to sigh,

no binding quakes with stiff white gripping
for calm within from parasitic kicking,
digging, writhing, and ripping
starving for starting the cycle’s beginning,

and no finding the time buried
as the heart heaves uncovered
the weight given back
by a false lover.

Now the rain coming down is much too clear.
I sit in a tin with bullets in my ears.
Drawing back from the heat I was dreaming
to look down at my body freezing.
All the while my mind still grieving,
for what devil left it bleeding.

I am a poet with a tendency to focus on challenges that people create within themselves. While adventures steal my money and impulses drive my mind, I am compiling a set of poems that I hope will not fall prey to abandonment in a cardboard box. I have been published in Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine.

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