liz isn't gia.
not the tragic destruction,
not the beautiful digression.
I was never the disaster you wanted of me.
I am nothing but the aching disappointment.
I imagine you seeing the piles of bottles.
the fridge full of half empty take out containers
from weeks ago.
liz is not gia.
liz is not the raging forest fire,
any more.
liz is the slow controlled burn.
I feel like the apex (or nadir, choose)
will never arrive.
The lowest point is never as low,
there is always lower.
And that's why.
You can not save me.
I do not need saving!
Not this time, not last time.
Surviving.
Liz is not Gia.
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Steady stream of smoke rising from a clove cigarette
Burning in my fingers, which burn from the cold
The smoke floods from my lungs into the wind that ebbs and flows
Ebbs and flows.
The snow blanketing this neighborhood that I have come to know
My home.
Pelting in a steady rhythmic hail against tree branches
Cast in silhouettes of veins over the ground
From the light across the street, in which the falling snow dances like aurorae.
Pure white snow covers all
Except the shadows.
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