Sticks and Bottles
I once smoked a joint. Three inches, straight. Not even stopping
to take a breath. Oxygen didn’t matter. Just smoke.
Dried lips, limp limbs. I didn’t stop. Just inhaled deeper.
Until my lungs expanded and I died. They found nothing.
Just clogged tear ducts and a lighter
with your name.
I once drank a bottle. One litre, straight. Not even looking back
to take a breather. The alcohol was hot. Warming
my blue fingers. Making the blood rush back to my heart.
I drank until I drowned, and my lungs collapsed. Then I died.
They found everything. Wrapped in a towel, the one with your name
stitched on it. Eyes drier this time.
J.C (Just Crumbs)
I looked behind the fallen
bread crumbs. They left
a winded trail. Even the birds refuse
to nibble at them. The ants have too much
on their backs, roaches don’t eat dust either.
Should I pick them up and throw them
into the pond instead? Let the fish gobble them
up. Lead none to waste. You wouldn’t like it
when I’m wasted. Did the road trip to Bataan go well?
You must’ve been numb, like you always were.
Teach me how to bake your blue velvet cakes,
without the artificial coloring. Don’t leave
behind a winded trail, you’re not bread.
No one would pick at your fallen crumbs.