I’m running out of poetry; your Absence is a burglar of words and rhythm. You’re the one who’d always told me to write my heart out. Just write, baby girl. Tell me, how am I supposed to cope with the loss of my goddamned verses? Who am I, if not a writer?
I wandered way down cobblestone,
deep in fog exhaled from lungs.
Mourning mind preoccupied,
my flitting feet followed instinct—
landed me at Dimwit dive-bar,
I ended up supping a ginny Gin Rickey.
in the nook at the
billiards table, a beatnik boy-toy of
Nimoy stature floated me a
hawk-eye look; affixed a fag to
his bottom lip, and
I just knew he was the type who
Wuthering fucking Heights.
What comes next? I have an idea, but can’t seem to execute it. I’ve been staring at this piece of shit for five wasted days. I’m too consumed with thoughts of you. And damn it, I’d like to be able to write about some other things now and again—in between fits of losing my mind over visions of you alone on the kitchen floor, and your blank eyes staring into nothingness. Shit, I’d like to put head to pillow at night without having to recall the scent of death that cleaved to your apartment despite the bottles of bleach that were used to clean up your leaked fluids.
Mother, what am I supposed to do? I’m so fucking tired of writing about you.
But who am I, if not a writer?
Kindra M. Austin is an author (information on her book can be found here), artist, and a Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan—Go Detroit Red Wings! She likes her drinks corpse stiff, music loud as fuck, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.