The Weed that Chokes

by: Ash


i’ve found that fingers are a funny thing
one false move and you’ll lose a limb a la Hemingway
the finger is the focal point of
every last hate and every first love

i almost escaped the rest of my life entirely
but i was the Ride Home, alone
with you…
all alone

the casket closed as i pulled the keys
your breath reeks, i speak
get out
of
my car

silence ensues, my god, you know exactly
what you do

writhing back against my seat
so this is how it ends..
deaf to NO, so empty and shallow
fighting myself to just pretend

I’m
Not
Here
Not
Here
Not
Here
NOT
here

But draining seconds pass and you refuse disappear
The lingering scent of fuckifiknow, my head hits the window
but i remain cursed with total consciousness
as you run your fingers along the fringe

fingers flit through page after page
shredding up bits of revenge
my neck stiffens and the rage drains

and you stop, an expression of oceans…
yet here we still are
funny how walking on one’s fingertips can take one so far

i don’t want your jacket or your shame
you got out too late

the listless rain spits gently, as if to calm, to caress
yet every drop feels like assault
as i clutch the wheel, lips blue, heaving chest
they told me the driver is always at fault…

it was a thursday. bloody thursday
trailing like a cloak covering my body
so no one sees my soul choke