repost: cigarette hair

This is grief

This is
stale air of a dawn bus ride
forehead pressed on bathroom tiles
numb feet in cheap boots
burning fever in a house of strangers
This is
rough coffee on an empty stomach
kissing with mouth of tears
house with mould on the walls
heated 3am litany of all your flaws
This is
highway noise in a forty-dollar pub room
silence from the one you love
cigarette hair and mouth a desert
sweat down your back at a midsummer funeral,
but this is worse.
This is worse.

From [the author]: I just feel horrendous. I have been trying to write my way out of this because writing is my thing. This is a poem about what my life is like at the moment. I can’t live like this any more. Please restart me and call this Day 1.

Reposted with permission from Tired of Thinking About Drinking