Bottle’s Calling

17 May

              I was stabbed to death two weeks ago. I saw it coming, and yet, I couldn’t stop the words as they escaped my mouth. As I lay there, bleeding out slow, I couldn’t even close my eyes. I watched as the blood pooled around me, caressing my shirt like a long lost brother and staining it red. Maybe I’m just paranoid. Maybe I’m insane. But maybe… just maybe, I am dead.

             I was driving down the highway when I died. I saw it coming, yet I found it impossible to close my eyes. I felt the vehicle flip and was thrown throughout the entire ride. The pain was familiar, almost like an embrace from my mother and I didn’t run. I could never have ran. I’m bleeding and choking on the road and blood. I don’t want this. I never wanted this, yet I can’t even begin to imagine a more appropriate end.

             So bleed me dry and leave me hollow. Right where she found me. Like bleached bone found in the desert sun and thrown in an exhibit within a museum. Paint me pale and throw me in a mausoleum and charge the tourists a tiny fortune to witness this outrageous margin. Let them see and witness the space buried between confidence and hate. Let my body tell the tale, of a crimson heart that beat just so it could fail. It never mattered and either do these words. Thoughts tossed out to be returned. Alone the mind understands what the body can never vocalize and alone… the mind dies.

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Posted by on May 17, 2014 in Burned.


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