Pain And Beauty Are Dying

Are you coming together?
You cannot bind your pieces
by chance or unlink yourself
from the world. You have to move
with it, and roll. Roll with the
lottery of your birth.

Here, see, you cannot take the cards
nailed to my hands like I can’t
take that which has been glued to your belly.
Have you not taken enough?
No beating could bring you
any more hurt than you’ve endured.

Could you tell me more about the procedure?
“No,” she said.
Could you promise me if I leave, you’d still be accepting?
“No,” she said.
Could you direct your potions to my insides, please.
I can no longer afford the luxury know where it feels like a fire has started.

“Yes, I can do that. I can numb you down to convenience.”
I would have ran away, but where would I go, if not here?
Tie me up. I overbet my palms bad.
I am nothing but resilient. I am nothing but a burden.

All you have acquired, you wear like pendants,
a life you had before. Your memoirs.
“Yes, I can write that, but only if you’re willing to bet and call
on chips, round, blessed be of the lottery of your birth”
and the end of your smiles, days, dancing.

Cash me in. I’ll crawl through vents.
Mesmerized by eyes sunk into bed.
Terse; I’m gargantuan, a gutter of grapes.
Round me up to the infirmary of the barely living and I’ll become
the dream of the dead.


OTHER POEMS BY ETHAN LESLEY CC | CLICK HERE TO VIEW ALL || Blue Milk, poetry
 
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