Breathe

The horizon slits the throat of the morning sun
& we become the mistakes
we filled the night with our complaints

of how your father hit you;
the man who raped you
& your drunken mother.
                               
All I mention is my punishment for carving

“Nature is a whore” onto my desk at school:

My suicide attempts could wait.

Blood spreads across the sky &
we’ve drunk all the wine.

So what do we do now?

Return to the pain & the same
old memories we long since learnt
                                                          to repress?

Or should we press our flesh together
 
laying like cats in the sun;

surrounded by the silence that speaks from the trees

 

& breathe?