There's no break in a black night

She keeps her left hand handy and open. Doesn’t need any dirty, palm-up prayer of good intentions and god blesses. She knows how God works. Knows where to find Him in the dark corners of depression on nights clear and wide. Those are the loneliest. Like not even the sky has any empathy. There’s no break in a black night, no answers in a knife. And this high won’t last her till morning. Only chest aching collapse,

suicide nightmares,

sleep solace,

coma quiet.

No way around the gut turning and the heart pounding and the deep breathing breaths never deep enough.

:

:

What is this life?

This fucking fuck up of my life?

And this urge for a knife?

And blood?

Rust in my dreams,

fire in my veins,

The Burning beneath closed skin.

Open and there, reveal

revolutions and redemptions,

baptize new fears in sanguine [rivers] [rivers of sanguine].

There’s no telling where this edge may end

up taking me out back and leaving me on the roadside dying.

Lungs punched with gravel.

No bones.

I have no bones.

Fragile always failed me,

[cry anyway].

There are epiphanies in these fluids.

There’s a puddle somewhere

I can see my face.

I don’t recognize it anymore.