Happy Holidays: nothing’s changed

And these are the days I need to scream; the sound, a miscarriage at the top of my throat. So I swallow the rotten, add to the echoes in my stomach. I am bloated. I am bleeding to death from inside out. I drink blood thinners to speed up the process. Such a long process,

100 Proof

I thought I heard you coming through the car radio, en route to nowhere that really much matters. Train Kept a Rollin’ and I didn’t change the station, even though I’d rather step in soft dog shit with bare feet than listen to Aerosmith. You’d always loved Aerosmith. Now I hate Aerosmith cos you don’t

Truth: the liquid kind

I listen to Radiohead when I contemplate killing you— I want to smash your glass and get at the inside of your meaning. Shells tell different truths— look at me. See, I’m right and tight with my plastic teeth, and painted eyes that never blink. We mislead, you and me. © Kindra M. Austin (image: Gifer)

Hi. I’m an Alcoholic. Nice to Meet You.

Hi. I’m Kindra—alcoholic. It’s been thirsty seconds since my last drink, and thirty nine years since my last confession. I turn forty in December. I’ve kissed a few girls, dropped acid once, finger fucked myself eleventy hundred times, and committed adultery with an Englishman who won’t leave me alone— my pussy is lined with gold.

Monkeys on My Back

It is my circus and those are my monkeys stacked up high— one and ninety-nine, shredding down the big top and feeding me the pieces.   © Kindra M. Austin (image: Pinterest)

At the Dairy Case

Fuck grocery store etiquette. Tears for Fears tells me to shout, so I let it all out in front of the dairy case while inspecting my perfection— mourning after reflection—in the fingerprinted glass. My cheeks are hollow but my gut is bloated from too much diet soda (I’m watching my figure) and vodka.   In

Rubbing Alcohol

  Drunk driving through towns, mother rubs me the wrong way– open intox, pray… you’ve never been arrested! And nobody has died yet.   I often wonder, Mom, why I don’t call the cops on you.                

Wishing For Death: 1

Understand me. I wished him dead. I did have half a mind to kill him once, with a cast iron skillet, caught up in the white-hot frenzy. I was fourteen years old, and convinced I was prepared to murder the man choking my mother in the kitchen while a beef roast baked in the oven.

Into Fiction

I write you into fiction–it’s the only place you ever listen. clickety-clack go my keys, and you’re the woman I want you to be: Sober.

Irises on High

They’re pretty, her irises, like two treasures found with a pair of hands digging up earth. Slick grey clay discs mottled with steel blue and green; my mother’s eyes, almost constantly  high, muddled by her damned Elixir of Truth.