Trained in interpreting the level of trust among thieves
baptism into healthy hate was the way the preacher phrased it

on my worse days, which are more common now than I would publicly admit,
I look at pictures of you and cry with the pain of a thousand shards of fractured glass
ripping into my feet as I stumble and brace myself for the next step

gut-wrenched and drenched in the sweat of squalor and the lower fear remanding
wondering which promises would be spoken today to cover up your lies

this day is but one of many other days when the preacher
offers me a glance of understanding while damning me to darkness

a place I have been living in for quite some time
a fair residence for one whose mouth knows nothing more
than to speak of pain received yet unprocessed, love lost to faceless solicitors
some photo finish comparing insufficient covering to cloak and dagger brinksmanship

meanwhile, you listen to me and know that
your weak back has more strength than you give it credit for, because
your wondering heart keeps coming back for more
a calculus that it may not be resolved for years

for that is the way healthy hate moves, in patterns forming and receding in derivative
with glass removed and pictures ripped into fine dust
head hurting from a night of clearing out the best scotch on the menu
of a morning waiting for rebirth with no clothes left in the closet to wear
anticipating that time when the sun shines in such a solitary fashion

that I am once again in your eyes.

03/06/2011

Author's Note: You showed me my tomorrow beside a box of matches
a welcome threatening stare”

AN courtesy Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys

Posted on 03/06/2011
Copyright © 2024 Dan Kasten