If vodka was red

He wears the red-rimmed eyes of grief
lips duct taped by a sadness so profound
its only response is silence so loud
it screams in its non-voice
a sound only the melancholy-seekers can see

We walk with the weight of ghosts
on our shoulders
all purple and blue bruised on the inside
beneath our sallow skin
tinged with the yellow of too many vodka baths
and heaving mornings
that smell of bile and blood

I will not forget the film reel my mindís blocked out
taxi ranks and green shoes in a rose garden
whiny girls and slurred promises
not to give away my wine on your shoes

He will not remember the text messages
that make no sense, all vowels and consonants
in disjointed order
that speak the things he canít breathe into words
when the clarity of his mind crushes all thoughts
into blinding, blinded emotions
that no vocabulary can fill

Crowned with nails and cloaked with scars
we drunkenly nail ourselves to the wall
like the self-destruction of Jesus
without the prophecy of rebirth
yet still hoping that weíll be resurrected
between the dust motes and light
that cut through the blinds
on another day that never ends

© Indie Adams 2014
Written by Indie (Miss Indie)
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 5 reading list entries 1
comments 7 reads 688
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
Today 11:33pm by wilberfloss
Today 10:58pm by Backmomentarily
Today 10:25pm by Backmomentarily
Today 9:48pm by Bluevelvete
Today 9:26pm by EdibleWords