All my clothes have holes. Dark and bitten. My memory hides underneath the eucalyptus oil on the warm night air. If I shed my cloth it would cover the earth in black cotton. Never mind. Never mind. The alarms have stopped ringing. The smoke is nothing more than vapors in ghost pipes. This airport hasn’t seen more than bones in twenty years and the chattering teeth are nothing but talking skulls. Don’t run. Don’t turn away from five am. Don’t pretend you’re awake when you’re struggling not to bleed out in dream. I know this sleep and it’s a tunnel that leads into the dark if you forget your body laid out, half under cover and half sprawled into the bite.
The cliff calls almost as loudly as the stripped rusted frame of the crashed Ford full of weeds and branches and restless memory. You know it called you to the edge where the ghosts dance like punks and never fall. You know you reached your hands out across the chasm and felt freedom stab at you and you met it with open arms, with the calm hands of suicide. You can say what you want to everyone but the mountain knows the truth. It never dies on the trail of grass and spirit. You have never left it, dead as you were, you will never leave it. You are recorded through the rocks and dirt and scrub and bush and the free-fall you have been taking ever since you walked away from the precipice.
The tunnel may have been narrow, but it was clean. It was open for the wake.
Inspiration for this piece is “Young Wild Girls” by Bruno Mars