Back to the hopeless detachment
of my mind
the seven minute moods
swimming in it but sometimes it clicks
teeth chipping on the slide
closing my eyes
to see that flat black runny paint job
on a stolen bike
pedaling towards that ménage à trois
with black balloons and
the comfort found in parked cars
no slack in the chain
rust wet from solvent
dripping brown period blood
down my pant leg from the ring
the prom before the porn;
where i kept stabbing myself
with that rusty corsage
hiding the blood on my tuxedo
from the girl that I adored
About the Creator
Joey Rounds
Ventura born, N.C. raised, In Reno is where i’m spending most of my days. Father, blue collar serf, pseudo-intellectual, big wave surfer (waves of depression). I wear a crucifix necklace, just in case I get stabbed at a 7-11 Redbox.
Keep reading
More stories from Joey Rounds and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.