Long-regretted and undigestable words
pressed between lips and sticky glass;
this is how we pass the moments
when the treachery of our own breath
leaves us desperate for release from
between vodka on the rocks
and the hard place in the back of the skull
that holds the swollen root of self doubt.
We pickled it, we prized it out
with pawing uncertain hands groping,
blindly, into each others psychosis -
your hands on my hesitant hips
and my tears on your handkerchief.
I tried to save you, and you me
but no blade worked to ply out the pain
in its pit-stone seating above our spines.
It sat heavy on our minds and sweated,
sweated its mildewous poison into us
and into our tempestuous relationship
until eventually your hands trailed up
to that place where vultures perch their hopes
on prominent collarbones -
your hands round my neck you clawed
and tried to squeeze the poison out of me.
your mouth nor your thumbnail at my throat
with a salt rim like a Margarita glass
made out of yesterday's trying times.
We tried, didn't we, my love?
Through the kisses and the chastising
we tried to exorcise our right to be in love
but diseases and plum-stones don't listen
to prayers or promises, they seek the victory of
'I give up' or 'I'm sorry, I can't ---'
Our demons lick their lips at the taste of victory
and rip our hearts through our jugulars
revelling in the broken remains of what once looked