by Olive McCoy
Cinematic self-indulgence,
eyes rimmed red with rain and
stirling smoke.
Lips,
slightly parted,
wet as devils.
Slick skins and hoarse throats.
Running through tick infested grass,
lucky to have survived
screaming half remembered songs
in a language I never really spoke.
It felt like an ending.
I wanted to draw blood.
die in that frame,
escape my sickly mind,
sever those fleshy ties
that keep my weak soul
wandering.
But I knew you would want
to play saviour,
tell me I was selfish,
senseless,
and sordid.
You would tell me that
if I stayed,
drinking spit-warm vodka,
I would miss my train
and waste the money I had
already spent
on my return ticket.