By: Grant M. Armstrong

Solitary confinement
You can fake an orgasm
But I cannot even fake a smile
I said I needed a break
But not one in the leg

I haven’t left the house
In four days
Under a self-imposed house arrest

I take this razor and
Count in my skin all of my sins
Like a prisoner counts his days left

###

A sad song

Our rings are feeling looser
And our chest feeling tighter
Our diet is heavy on silence
And our thoughts on violence
I tried to distinguish between
You and your shadow that night
But we have both been on a journey
To break all the mirrors so we can
Finally take off our masks

###

Past life
Your lips move
As does your psychiatrist’s pen
But after two weeks
You feel the same as you did then
And that modicum of hope
You once did possess is covered
By clouds, the worst kind of overcast

I have made my own church
Out of empty liquor bottles
And created an alter to my own god
I’ve committed suicide in all my past lives
And I’ve had many husbands and many wives
I’ve dug my own grave with my own shovel
And with my own hands I have killed god.

###

World
I rub your thighs
And try to analyze
How the whole world
Came from that place
And I spend all my
Time trying to return