Monday, May 19, 2014

Quicksand Is a Melodrama

Unless it’s up to your neck
and you’re reaching
for a vine in vain
as your hand slowly
sinks from view
like a half-assed
search and rescue.

At that point,
it becomes a real-life
son of a bitch.

Same with bleeding.
It’s all, “Great,
another overblown
of having your guts
ripped all the way out
by some bare-handed
beauty who clichés,
‘I love you, Danny, but
I’m not in love with you.’”
Totally mockable,

until you’re at the bottom
of another long bottle
so afraid of seeing straight
that you stumble into the tub
fully clothed with a sweaty grip

on the sharpest thing in the drawer.

Writing Through Your Divorce - May 19, 2014

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