8/11/14: My Swords

I remember that feeling well—
not just lonely but alone;
cold metal of a gutter; grimy
filth in my clothes, hair,
under my nails;
the sting
of poison in my veins;
guilt for contaminating everything I
touch.
And I remember the places it took me—
a room with no windows with
doors that don’t open;
an escalator going
down; down to the pit that
some may classify
as hell on earth.

That feeling and that place morph into
swords.
I sharpen their blades, so next time
         the serpent
slithers out of the shadows,
unannounced, whispering sweet nothings of
ecstasy
without consequence,
I can stab with the cold gutter and
slice off it’s head with my own personal
hell.

 

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