(Poems) – twenty – 120 words

I have never once written a word I’m proud of.

and I’ve never once taken a breath of fresh air.

Or seen the stars unclouded.

Or felt safe in my skin.

I’m twenty years old

And this country is the color of spilled blood,

And the only metaphors I know are bloody,

and I can’t wash the taste of blood away—

not with poison or water or sleep.

I’ve watched you all sink beneath the waves,

and I can’t recognize you or anyone new.

All I can do is wrinkle in stagnancy.

And watch as the sky disappears behind factory smoke,

and the water rises above my bowed head,

and the atoms split in the sky over the corpse sea.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: