She has footprints on her back.
She tries to hide them- always washing her sweaters, sometimes turning them inside-out.
But I see them. I see the lines on her face, the ones that shouldn’t be there- not yet at least.
Her blue and red eyes leak “weary” and “down-trodden” down her cheeks, catching in her mouth-corners.
She tries to be tough, but inside she’s just as tough as those cashmere sweaters; the ones that are faded in places from too much washing.
But she can’t quit. Her suffering feeds my education; my future is hungry.
Perhaps I’ll buy her a new sweater.
I hear the train a comin'
It's rollin' 'round the bend,
And I ain't seen the sunshine,
Since, I don't know when.
“Folsom Prison Blues” Johnny Cash
I know this train is coming to a stop.
Everyone is so concerned with fuel and momentum,
They never want this ride to end.
But I’m okay with it.
Eventually the train will run out of coal,
And it might come to a quick, peaceful stop,
Or an agonizing crash.
Or it could collide with another train.
But I’m not too concerned.
In fact, I’ve contemplated making the train stop sooner than scheduled,
Taking control and ending it all early.
And people will tell me I’m sick, that I should get some help.
But if the train is stopping, why wait for the end?
I picked up the bottle again last week.
It would have been nearly a year in March.
Her sleek curves tempted me, glossy and sleek,
And on the rim, my lip-gloss left its mark.
I picked up the bottle again, I’m weak.
Her laugh was cruel as I took my first gulp.
I fell off the wagon, felt like a freak.
Her forbidden fruit had a bitter pulp.
The bottle slipped from my hand, my head spun.
My sweet ecstasy was marred by my shame.
The bottle grinned in triumph, she had won,
The sweat dried up on her green-tinted pane.
The skin on my stomach is mangled and numb.
“Days Since I Used” has now gone back to one.