These days are getting longer and
it is getting more difficult to sleep in
this bed where you abandoned me
for those orange containers and
half empty bottles; you drowned all
of our promises in your poisons
and suffocated every secret that
you were too drunk to keep.
That bed encompasses my sufferings
but I cannot help but to sense the love
stitched between the fibers of the fabric;
you are digging my grave with your sins.
Every passing moment I become more
buried in the sheets with the blood stain
on them from the night that you first gave
yourself to me—I continue to wait until
those stitches tear.
You don’t even speak to me anymore
because you are too occupied among
conversations with cutting needles
and that pure, white powder—it kills me
to know that I was never enough, that
I could never be your saving grace.
The intervals of my nights and days
are still spent in that bed you tucked
my cold, fragile body in long ago; rags
and strings of those sacred sheets
serve as a reminder that your love is
The stitches tore.
I use them to suture the hole
that you left in my aching heart,
but your chemicals still leave toxic
I just wanted to save you, but you
hid what was left to save in the
depths of the empty bottles.
You are still my angel.