Poetry

A hard drink of
heartache, and you blink.
It was very difficult
to understand blues.

In black sky
you whimper and ask
only for the love to happen between
the sweaty hands.

The stings have
a job to do. They breed the
wasps amidst us. So your
signs bleed.

The night terrors
return. I touch the toxic
insignia. Such pure flesh
will kiss the poem.