The White Lines – Poem

 

The white lines began to blur

as my wrists folded under

the comatose chest

pressed

against the mirror

by the thin liquid

the razorblade drew

on accident.

 

Crumbling into the bright white

brought the happy numb

that felt like seventh grade

on the last day before summer,

when she gave you her number

on that old beige bus,

that you left,

absolutely elated.

 

It didn’t last long,

and neither did the next,

or the next,

one could go on

until this love

which crumpled my chest.

 

I’m alive again

alone

in the dark,

forgetting about dad,

about mom,

and her

when the white lines blur.

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