Gone Wrong

Smoke in the lungs of the dark room.

-

Faces barely illuminated,

barely visible,

the door ajar, the shadow of

a man interrupting the line of

gasping light, lying still,

laying silent

and bleeding out.

-

The road, rushing past, was marked by

high grass on both sides, the roadkill lit by street lamps, gore seen in hesitant glimpses

followed by hands rushing to cover eyes.

-

The rain slowly picked up, the car ride near silent

but the insistent engine growling, the metal coffin groaning. People on the pathways

engaged in their own fears,

hopeless eyes reflecting the night sky, light briefly alive, but

delicately glistening in its last moment,

the calls for help there to only those listening.

-

The hospital had its own glow,

the white walls a distraction from the pale bodies,

a crude attempt at camouflage, and a direct contrast

to the blood on your bedsheets.

-

The bruises dotted on your arms,

dying black stars upon a white sky,

now opened up and swallowed you whole. The stash flushed and forgotten,

-

asked about months later,

but never made explicit.

-

We tried to forget, but the image is still vivid.

We tried to move on, but the shackles are too tight.

We tried to make peace, but we only found pain.

We tried to live, but your oppressive memory remained.