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
Or should we press our flesh together
laying like cats in the sun;
surrounded by the silence that speaks from the trees