The burn at the back of my throat choked me as I engulfed my body in smoke,

Pearly whites of my eyes red and stinging.

No matter how I try to drown my anguish,

I am plagued with the Phoenix-rising philosophy.

Yet how many times do I write about revenge?

Of using the same metaphors

Because I possess no social skills—

I’ve made myself a pariah.

Phantom’s laughter haunt me when I’m asleep,

Filling my head with the voices of my demons.

Some which proclaim to be ancestral—

The rest hopped on my back as I ran my legs to stumps—

One sip of the communion wine,

I am seeing angels full of eyes all around and within.

Six-winged Seraphim came to me in a vision:

My works are contrite and exhausting—

No wonder—

I will go unread until the day I die.

Carved into my tombstone,

The love I had for the tides.

The dash between my first breath and my last,

Undiscovered trenches of the sea.

Alone with my artificial warmth—

My pants left on the bathroom floor,

I’d walk away, hanging my head in shame if I knew what that was anymore.

The moon ignited a familiar fire—

A fella got too close for comfort,

Asked me if he was the one I’d let my walls down for

And broke his own heart when I told him he shouldn’t go seeking answers to questions he wasn’t ready to hear.