Another year has slithered past me Left me in knots that can’t be untied Like being pinned between a car hood and a tree; they are all that holds my organs in
The deceit of sheepskin I pull over my own eyes So I won’t have to recognize that I’m the wolf the one left behind due to injury but who refused to die Too brutal for the masses, too gentle for my own kind
I’ve grafted my own skin to replace itself Like eleven eggs split across two baskets I either have six in one or a half dozen in the other Neither both, what is given must be taken, life’s a balancing act
I’m lying on the ground with half my bones broken
I’ve got a pill box on a necklace A cigarette behind one ear and a pencil behind the other A regret I continue to commit in my hand
Drafting this poem with a tattoo gun on my forehead in a mirror Like it’s the best idea I’ve ever had Cut off the bloodline like honestly, where was it leading?
I have whiskey on my breath; she says I remind her of her dad She says my cigarette smoke reminds me of her mother I don’t say anything at all, I drink, I smoke, I try to smile
John Maurer is a 26-year-old writer from Pittsburgh that writes fiction, poetry, and everything in-between, but their work always strives to portray that what is true is beautiful. They have been previously published in Claudius Speaks, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, Thought Catalog, and more than eighty others. @JohnPMaurer (johnpmaurer.com)