I Breathe Still

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For a minute or more, I was dead as you,

as you were technically dead

before the end was absolute—

before your brain conceded.

For a minute or more, my world was edged in blossoming dark,

engrossing, on the cusp of consent.

Blackbirds congregated, chattered ‘round my head, and

they called dibs on my vital organs—

heart, liver, kidneys, and lungs.

One expressed explicit interest in

my spleen—

keen student of human anatomy,

morbid corvid.

Then a cardinal came with your breath on its wings,

and I breathed.

I just breathed.

I breathe still…

 

© Kindra M. Austin

image: Houston Audubon

 

 

 

Truth: the liquid kind

I listen to Radiohead

when I contemplate killing you—

I want to smash your glass and

get at the inside of your meaning.

Shells tell different truths—

look at me.

See,

I’m right and tight

with my plastic teeth,

and painted eyes that never blink.

We mislead, you and me.

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© Kindra M. Austin

(image: Gifer)

 

 

Hi. I’m an Alcoholic. Nice to Meet You.

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Hi.

I’m Kindra—alcoholic.

It’s been thirsty seconds since my last drink, and

thirty nine years since my last confession.

I turn forty in December.

I’ve kissed a few girls,

dropped acid

once,

finger fucked myself eleventy hundred times, and

committed adultery with an Englishman

who won’t leave me alone—

my pussy is lined with gold.

I smoke pot with my dad,

who abhors alcohol.

 

Hi.

I’m Kindra.

My mother was an alcoholic.

I don’t know how many times she’d

finger fucked herself, or how many joints

she’d smoked while riding shot-gun with my dad.

I don’t know if she’d ever dropped acid, or how many times

she might’ve wished she could confess to a god who’d

forsaken her.

All I know is that her life isn’t my problem—

I don’t have to make amends on her behalf.

 

My name is Kindra, and I battle against alcoholism.

I understand why I use, and I’m determined to

crush the crutches.

 

I’m determined to live for me.

 

© Kindra M. Austin

(image: The Piano Bar)