I am Nothing.

Again in my cell with ice aging walls, writing in red pen just for your attention.
There are holes in my knees.
There are holes in my feet.
There are holes in my head.
“The lack of sleep,” you’ve said.
So keep your teeth on your tongue and clamp them down so hard.
And wake up while I’m still conscious and around
with a never wasted breath,
well, only on your chest.
I thought I told you, “I thought I knew you.”
I thought wrong once again.
I thought wrong.

So bite your crowded tongue
and bite your loving lip
and make it bleed so thick.
Make it bleed so rich in color.

What do you call it when your best friend drowns and you’re still around to hear from their parents?
What do you call it when you’re sucking down all your new friends?
Twenty is man’s best friend.
What do you call it when you are dead but the note on the door says ‘thanks for everything’?
What do you call it when you can’t force a smile
and it’s been this way before at least a thousand times?

What do you call it when you’re sucking down all your new ‘friends’?
Another pack wasted another day later.

So bite your crowded tongue
and bite your loving lip
and make it bleed so thick.
Make it bleed so rich in color.

All the blues and reds in this old town
can’t force a second limb and a frown doesn’t mean anything,
to anyone,
especially the ones you thought you knew
and the ones you thought you loved
and especially you,
yourself,
while youre drowning in your flavorless gin.

I am dying.
I am dying.
And I am the Boyertown historian.
I am nothing.