impact.

well, i'm not sure if you would consider this poetry, but i think it counts.

bottles glued to her lips,
like a tree to the ground.
Time slows down,
clock ticks slower.
shes coming toward me,
each step echoes.
one two three four...
almost here.
five six seven eight.
the door opens,
i am helpless.

24.
24 hours since i've seen her.
my eyes the color of pavement,
and it aches.
i am cut,
and the blood rushes like a river.
a river of red.
these wounds she didn't make,
not physically at least.
i'm not scared anymore,
and the only pain i feel
is focused on my wrists,
and even that's fading.
this is the warmest i've felt in years.

i supposed this could've been stopped.
the tables turned back.
but empty bottles,
and a strong fist,
with sharp words
are hard to erase,
and my lifes not pencil on paper.
this is better.
i won't become the monster
that i was taught to trust,
and then learned not to.
now i will be the ink spot,
that leaves barely a stain behind on others.
and will never become

a work of art.