glass

i write because

the glass bottles stashed in the dark are my shame

lying askew like limp bodies

every empty inch is an inch of liquid failure

consumed

in my blood is the disease of ancients

a self-destructive blood

that thirsts hotly to replace itself with poison

carve out the pieces of my life

prop up what remains with glass

cold brittle skeletons of a habit

that remains

and replaces my spirit with spirits

dilute the mind

and self-cleanse with a grainy cohersion

my secret lingers in the vapor of my breath

in the hollows of my heart

and in the written inks of truth.