Razor Flame

A depression poem

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I’ve slept with crows,
I’ve slept with fire,
where the sky tears itself
into sunset shreds
and Hell is a blindness
that wraps itself around you
like a freshly skinned wolve’s hide.

It’s impossible to dream
with that black goat whispering
about the pleasures of the flesh.

Better to stuff a rag in the tail pipe
of the car in the garage,
and put on a compilation album
of your favorite songs
from when songs were a cave
you could hole yourself up in
and pretend the world outside
was nothing but a reflection
of the full moon
on a window you’d rather not open.

I’ve been that window,
and I’ve been that moon.
I’ve heard myself sobbing
from another room,
and been too afraid
to knock on the door.

What does it mean
to turn yourself into an alphabet
of howls?


Photo by David Dibert via Unsplash

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Written by

Provocative truth teller, author of 14 poetry collections. Cat dad. Dog dad. Currently working from Portland, Oregon. Learn more at: Jaysizemore.com.

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