words

as the years drag forward
a distinctive bitter taste
develops in the back of the throat
much like the taste of ash
or the stale aftermath of spirit and smoke,
and not for no reason,
there is just plenty to be sad about.

every morning in the winter,
it’s a little colder
and in the summer,
a little warmer
and in the fall,
a touch more apathetic
and spring no longer registers.

loved ones die or move on
and leave you just as puzzled
as the day you were born.

women walk away without looking back
and friends no longer care to hear
the things that make life
so utterly unbearable,
the things that need
so desperately to be said aloud,
even stray creatures look away, unamused
by the tragic fall of will and charisma.

everything you write smears
into meaningless shapes and lines,
and everyone you’ve ever known
continues to move away from your center of the universe,
the big bang in your head propelling outward
the force of gravity in your heart.

-S.C. Martinez