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,

Sister

Sister hides behind brunette mantle dyed burgundy, and I wonder whether obscured amber orbs jammed inside her eye sockets are human, or glass beads that once belonged to her favorite baby doll.   Sister says, I’m cursed like Mother, and I wonder whether she owns vocal cords, or plastic mama box manufactured in Japan.  

I Breathe Still

For a minute or more, I was dead as you, as you were technically dead before the end was absolute— before your brain conceded. For a minute or more, my world was edged in blossoming dark, engrossing, on the cusp of consent. Blackbirds congregated, chattered ‘round my head, and they called dibs on my vital

At Least I Know Now

Tramadol Toxicity— that’s a real bitch-ity. Surely Narcotics are dirty Sarcastics?   High risk for addiction and dependence. Can cause respiratory distress and        h death               g when            i taken in  h doses or combined with other substances, especially alcohol.   You

Phantom Pain

  Thought I’d felt my heart stir. Make my hands into shovels and dig up the garden, again.   Goddamned, I am. There it is, feeding the weeds.   © Kindra M. Austin (image: Pinterest)

Anyway, Always

Thinking about it now, I’m not the least bit sorry for the hateful shit I’d said to you eleventy years ago, when I was a kid and you fucking knew better. I rescind my apologies. Not that my sorries ever meant a good goddamn to you, anyway— they were ever only as true as your

Monochrome Lungs

Today my eyes are monochrome lenses through which I deride; derailed by your present absence, I do despise this goddamned neighborhood. The people all breathe too loudly, showing off their functioning lungs.   (image: Pinterest)

For Only Me

  Every day it does reign, a perpetual decrescendo— melancholic melody made for only me.   Deluge of disquiet comprises choral pessimists repeating in my head. Depressionist percussionist beats heart that’s damn near dead. Dirges designed for only me.   But! Though it does reign—my melancholic melody—I seek the one to share an umbrella.  

Dead Mothers Don’t Dine

I dreamt I was miniature, traveling through a labyrinthine trailer park diseased with taupe colored muck, and flip-flopping mudskippers; pectoral fins glimmered in waves, despite the sunless, flat grey ceiling of a sky. My skin screamed at the loathsome goby touch, and my mouse heart beat savagely against its cage. Panic drove my legs, and

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