Monday, September 15, 2014

Crying for Three Straight Hours

Gives you one hell of a headache
and all different kinds of wet soak your shirt.

The sounds you make move across the mournful spectrum
from wails and moans to curses and howls.

You sit up, lie down, hunch, go completely fetal,
even try kneeling.

It starts shortly after twilight turns deep-cave black,
when you’d normally be surrounded by people

you’d always assumed would always surround you.
At somewhere between knife-to-your-wrist and gun-to-your-head,

when your throat is so sore it sounds like rug burn,
you stand, turn off the over-and-over-again of that one song,

stagger into the bathroom, splash water onto your puffy red face

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