I live alone
In the shadowed breaths
Plaguing my head
And the whiskey stains
Rubbing sharp fingers
Across the soft parts
Still left in my soul.
.
There aren't many pieces
Still inside of me
That burn from the liquor
But those sooty fingerprints
Where Night itself
Used to touch me,
Those still ache.
.
The alcohol touches them,
Runs a reverent tongue
Over the raw skin
And makes me burn
With the knowledge
That this is going away too,
Just like you.
.
Like the tendrils of night
Shifting and turning to mist,
A fog settling in the dug graves
Of my soul.
Empty for now,
Waiting for when
It becomes too much.
.
And what?
And I throw you out
With the Monday morning
Trashcan full to the brim
With snotty tissues
And dreams
That clog up my lungs.
.
Don't worry.
I'll pick you out of the trash
Before the sanitation officer
Shows up anyway.
I can't expel the toxicity,
The agony of this feeling,
Because then it's gone.
.
I will do anything
To cling to this dream,
This vanishing space
Where what was could be,
Where what died in my arms
Still has its faint and pretty
Heartbeat.
About the Creator
Silver Daux
Shadowed souls, cursed magic, poetry that tangles itself in your soul and yanks out the ugly darkness from within. Maybe there's something broken in me, but it's in you too.
Ah, also:
Tiktok/Insta: harbingerofsnake
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Very well written. Keep up the good work!
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The story invoked strong personal emotions
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Comments (11)
Silver nobody writes scorned love like you. Visceral work
Ah, but the anguish is so tangible it nearly leaps off the page. This poem is superb in its imagery and creative weave of words. So well done.
I'm so jealous of your writer's voice! You have this incredible ability to write beautifully unique and captivating poetry! This is breathtaking.
This is a wrecking ball of a poem! I am emotionally demolished!
This stains—whiskey-breathed, silver-tongued, seeping into the soft parts where grief shouldn’t moan but does. Reverent tongue—that line licked its way into my ribs and stayed. And that last stanza? That’s necromancy, darling. The kind that doesn’t raise the dead, just keeps them from ever really leaving. Beautiful. Messy. Rotting just right.
Great as always
Sheesh. the bar always feels impossibly raised whenever you put poems together. Sincerely, this is just a jaw drop. Like Caroline said...too many great lines. The bit "Where Night itself used to touch me" and the use of really quite unattractive things like trash and snotty tissues, in a poem that feels so based on the loss of something important and beautiful, is quite a jarring, but very clever contrast. Sorta like the sensual and the beautiful with the sordid and the disgusting. I'll stop now lol. Love this a lot, though.
Your persona is very well acquainted with loss.
So many fabulous lines in this! I feel touched by night just from reading it. Fab metaphor.
Damn, girl. You did it again, you brilliant creature. Love this!
Sooty fingerprints. Gorgeous