When A Beautiful Woman Takes To Drink

She becomes a drunk,
a lost semblance to her
former being. Life
becomes the next drink,vodkaglass
the next drink, the
next man, the next
squandering of rent.

She’s like a tattered painting,
fading, but with promise of
restoration, but without a
guiding hand, crumbles to
oily dust. And once the
cracking becomes skin-replacement,
she’s lost. Somberly, she
takes her life, a breathless poem
without a song.

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I took the picture from its hallowed frame

I took the picture from its hallowed frame,
peering into eyes squinted against the sunlight
from years that have slipped away from us.
We were younger then, loved each other then
the best way we knew how.
Dust.
That is what was left
on the glass and black-stained wood.
I thought it was a great frame to
showcase how much I loved you,
but every time it met my gaze, I
shuddered with the shames I could not
bear to give a name.
Thought I’d take it with me always,
but I kept it hidden in the confines
of a musty closet: hidden from every eye,
every face, every scrutiny.

I sigh when I take the photo from
the back. I can’t tear it up.
I just can’t.
I slip it into a crevasse of an abandoned box,
hoping it will find peace there.
A memory never dies until the two
who share it die.
A new visage rests in the hallowed frame;
a gift to a worthier soul.
And what remains of you and I?
Dust. Nightcall by Kavinsky

Cremation

Did you know that when a
a body is cremated, the
skull explodes from the
occipital bone?
Then the flesh is engulfed
in a furnace–the cardboard
box the corpse is ferried in is
lost to a sanitary inferno.
You are left with just a heap
of ash that used to be a person;
all that remains are flakes,
chips of bone.

My aunt was cremated.
She died alone with sullen, sallow
skin; dead for three days so the
teeth and skin was black and green
with decay, disease, the
stench of alcohol mingled with
utter filth and death.
It was the only option.
She wasn’t presentable…
but suicide is never presentable, is it?

I remember the funeral.
I remember how numb I felt,
how ashamed of what she had
become. Only the tears came
because everyone else was crying,
because everyone else knew this
loss. Everyone looked at me as
though I was a monster because I
did not weep, did not even move
or talk…
The loss did not sink in
until months had passed and
the stench of dog shit left the house.
She was reduced to ash, taken atop
an archaic mountain cemetary and
buried. What good is cremation
if you’re put in the ground anyway?
She was a free spirit; she
deserved to be set free, but
that kind of freedom comes with a price
and by God, did she pay it.
Sometimes I can still smell the
bittersweet odour of vodka and perfume.
You can’t burn away that smell.