Burn

- Poetry - 

Curtis Mayfield said, “If there’s a hell below
we’re all gonna go”
And the whiskey burn slides down my throat,
       -upper body muscles too weak-
       -not enough traction for feet-
unable to scramble up the walls of this glass
and out of this hole

Gin-saturated red-eyed dreams,
too similar to pure kerosene
are so ripe to ignite with the slightest heat
       -intellect vanishing fast-
       -soul inflamed, an oozing rash-
striking matches and roman candles, yet expecting
to get and stay clean

Downing pills like Tic Tacs,
an intentional mental lapse;
fighting for basic coping skills that I lack.
       -stunted emotional growth-
       -searching in substance for hope-
I, like an infant entertained by shiny things;
a mind with one track

Self-image and reality clash in the mirror,
forced into the clear,
substance enters to soothe the fear.
       -all systems on high alert-
       -efficiently rendered inert-
Clawing my way out of this fleshy shell,
mindlessness becomes dear

Slink back in and shut the closet door.
What am I good for?
hatred at the sight of my shadow, the sound of my roar.
       -acceptance, a plea from within-
       -who I am is a sin?-
Because what the hell will they say when I walk
out the closet door?

Spring 2016