by Chris Biles

You are a victim of yourself.
Your place is between heaven and hell,
always a darkness in the dawn.
You live for the haunted flicker
of candlelight,
for the way the wax drips
like soon-to-be frozen blood.

You sleep, and your body itches
in its inconsistencies.
Then you wake with the sun
to find bloody sheets,
skin beneath nails
awaiting its transformation
into dust.

Would you kill to make it through
the night?
Yes because when that storm chases
you underground you just crash crash
burn down there where no one else can go.

Your yesterdays are calling
as always,
the message you left to float away,
corked in that bottle,
has returned with the tide,
and your left eye begins to twitch
– there is no fucking reason why –
then it’s another night
of the hunter and the hunted:
one and the same.

Climb the inky silhouettes
of tree branches, hide, hunt,
shoot, be shot,
scream in agony, scream
in blissful wonder at the pain.
You are ripped apart, so fall
Back where you belong.

Wet grass, glistening
darkness, scratches head to toe,
swollen eye, bloodied lip, broken
Gun shot residue blackens hands,
blackens the gaping, gushing hole
in your chest where your heart once
thought it was actually on your side.

Just a way to occupy your mind.

Because the sky is always such a mess.
Run out in the pouring rain,
ask the lightening to illuminate.
You are the victim of yourself.
Nothing more.
In this place between heaven and hell.
In the middle of the pouring rain.
Guilt free.

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