By Kristina Kingsley
Pill Popping Queen.
The haze of the purple fog.
Flashing lights, red and blue.
A single breath that seeps into the starless night
and vanishes with the rising of the red dawn.
The ghost of a memory:
Neil Young on the vintage radio.
The smell of bacon, eggs, and toast filling my nose.
Folds in the red and white plaid tablecloth.
The beautiful way the busy world falls asleep when I lay my head on your chest.
An innocent kiss:
Two lips that mirror one another so perfectly,
they must have known how to kiss a million lifetimes before.
Crashing of yellow kitchen plates.
Your bag in the doorway.
The new girl on your arm.
The five drinks I down.
The empty city streets.
The snow that falls gently.
The crystals that entangle in my hair,
crawling down to coat the corners of my shivering mouth.
Silver dust sparkling on the hard ground.
The childish way I stumble
and fall asleep with a crash
in a blanket of flimsy flurries.
A stark resemblance to Williams’ patient,
etherized on a table
and memories of Spring, the beautiful way it unfolds,
blossoming like the flowers you brought me:
freshly cut daisies from the field.
My desire to slip
The stillness of my face.
The death of the light in my once jubilant eyes.
The father that disowned me.
The mother that never called.
The loneliness, consuming,
The heavy rocks that fill the pit of my stomach.
A collection of everyone long gone,
dragging me down to the depths to drown.
The desperate way I beg for the water
to fill my lungs and carry me into the darkness.