January 2004 / Volume Five / Issue One
Casandra Coin
Moscato Love

I am drunk on dying and
rotten like fermenting fruit.
I pour it back out, but
there’s never enough wine
to drive these pains to numbness.

My sadness comes as ebb and flow –
no schedule or gravitational rule.
My head aches and pounds as if flooded,
a dam bursts and tears violently force through tiny portals.
My eyelashes, dirty with mascara, blink feverishly to quell the deluge.

The water escapes until overwhelmed by rising heat.
It swarms my heart like angry wasps and
makes my breath quick and shallow, like a gasp before a choke.
I’m driven to throw things that break for perverse satisfaction
and think of all that will not or has not gone well since birth.

There is only one satisfying thought
A metal baseball bat gouging holes into every construct

But the walls remain whole with propriety and
silence leaves me futilely clawing at my neck
begging to be released from the vice of life.
Beauty seems a thing of yesterdays
when laughter was safe and naiveté acceptable –
before the endless debts and sellouts of my heart.
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