by Tyler Bigney
The needle on my record player is broken,
so the house is quiet except for
the wind and my solicitous breaths.
The birds outside, alive another day,
stomachs full from the seeds I tossed
out to them this morning. I’m praying
for the sun to bleed through the curtains,
and break like yolk across the floor.
I’m drinking until l’m happy,
but once I’m there, I continue
to drink until I feel worse,
awakened at four a.m. by what feels
like my chest caving in. And
like every horror movie ever made,
turns out I should have left my guard up,
or circled back and asked for help
while I still had the chance.
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