A Hard Wednesday

by Renwick Berchild

I twist under the streetlight, tell the tales of dead bodies rising.
I kill under the streetlight, speak the tales that crush us.

Dying for endings, daring devils, trading
our cigarettes, our coats, our sex for a bite of real love.

Hiding under all the bleak I imagine a meadow;
a meadow that rolls as an ocean and throws green towards the sky.

Hiding under all the people’s reddening, I imagine a meadow;
blades stretching their small petal-ed fingers towards each other.

Ten million windows howl back the light.
My pupils burn from my irises, tumble to the asphalt like marbles.

Transcendence is a hashtag.
Old scars leach my muscles of their strength and I cry.

Never did I need a star until I had none.
I roar under the streetlight. I threaten to take matters into my own hands.

I threaten, curse, wail; all is hollow.
I open the door and let the night air push in.

It’s the vodka
Of the first chime of Wednesday.

2 Comments to “A Hard Wednesday”

  1. Simply and truly beautiful.

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