I do

you’d think all the tiny flakes of glass
embedded deep in these retinas
would turn tears colours like crimson
afterbirth and intertwining circulatory systems
while shredding the light out in little skinny ribbons

it would appear to those who were left, bound to see clear
bound to their beds, lost in their mess
left to digest all the broken bone bits choked down
a glass of thick salt sweat, beading on raw meats
a night cap of chloroform boredom

and you’re safer to assume that with hands like yours
all the fingers and chords
ripping out tunes faces to the floor
and all the curves of every girl in the room spin
back to the bar begging for more

just a thumb roughly running up her
at the back of her neck and the base of her spine,
all pricking in time, vows and heroin
needles like old lovers
fucking up her posture

you’d wonder, wouldn’t you