broken doors and melancholy

by Alex Borrego


the cigar i lit with blood on my hands

the tears i shed as i lay tiredly 

is okay

i will only get that nocturnal disease anyways


that part of me is only a daze from what i feel like is the truth. 


my unreasonable sadness goes hand in hand with those gaps during my day, and they have left me coughing at night, choking on those tears i spill, gagging up the spit i feel. only to walk to my fridge and decide it’s time to eat. 


“what did i eat throughout the day?”


if i can barely remember what happens in my day then i surely won’t remember my guts spilling out in the sink, or the broken door next to my room, or the cigarette smelling jacket, or that gap i missed between now and when these feelings started. 


surely i won’t remember my head hitting the pillow and hand clutching the cross, while my nocturnal disease decides to burn like my cigar.