when you left.
Something happened that night.
It was a scream, I think.
A scream ripped through me.
Boulder-like
and Sharp.
From behind eyelids,
an erupting volcano.
I bled dry of salt and grace
and rewound video tape memories
until the drought finally arrived,
empty handed.
The worst kind of crying is like vomiting.
Rises from the intestines,
leaving ashy trails through throat valleys.
Pressure builds in heart, eyes, knuckles,
makes me contemplate long forgotten habits involving
Shiny tools and
thin Edges.
It was the first cry released and nearly
killed you.
Nearly killed me.
Hours spent between the bathroom floor and
under sticky bed blankets.
Between icy tile and suffocation.
I’m sure you know how this must feel.
And the rip-tide affect,
it almost drags your newly broken face back under,
just when you thought you were safe,
as fingers loosen the death-clutch on blankets moist with
sweat and
screechings.
These fits are best taken care of in the dark aloneness of night.
And upon waking
it is as if you’ve been exorcised from an ominous demon
whose claws previously possessed these
frail bones and fake smiles.
The night ended.
The scream left,
you are in one piece.
-J. Morrill
