Still on a slippery slope
T-minus one hundred fifty days
The ash of dried tears
Still cake the arch of
my cheek as new wetness
rolls over…and down.
At night the soft sigh
still escapes into the darkness.
The quiet whispers back
with the stillness of nothing.
I swallow back the vacuum inside.
The taste is bitter–of regret.
It’s sour with hate.
Stings like the salt of the pain
rubbed against a wound that
still bleeds the sweet iron taste
of love.
It’s a taste that curls in my mouth.
Bile rises and I’m left with
the hollowness of

Some days, I still do.

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