Day-Bodies Breaking by James Diaz

And if I told you I were all brittle souvenir
would it matter how long I held my words
before the broken thing in me showed through

spoken like
a true martyr
lost shoe
the kind your mother
made from rope
and bed sheets
(you made do)
still, something is owed
and it will never fit inside of you

misshapen screamer, soul scrapes clean
but doesn’t get away
Midwestern diner lights dimmer
than Autumns last gasp

it’s the little reprieve at the tattered
end of the great sentence
you don’t speak that hurts-
hovers
like stove light, homemade
breakable body, I know what it takes
to stay alive, to have nothing
to show for it

hold on
to this bed post
of bone, little dreamer

the scene of the never ending crime
all that love you never got will haunt you
pain writ larger than god-stone
swallowed like lost light
burning… burning its way
out of you.

 

©2018 James Diaz

 

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Bio: James Diaz is the author of This Someone I Call Stranger (Indolent Books, 2018). He is founding Editor of the literary arts & music mag Anti-Heroin Chic. His work has appeared most recently in Occulum and Philosophical Idiot. He lives in upstate NY and occasionally tweets @diaz_james.

You can find James’s pages on FaceBook and Twitter.

 

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