Muse (2/2) Poem by Charles Malcolm

One more
and I can write my wrongs.

A couple of glasses
ten more smokes
and several strokes of the blade
outta tear down these walls.
Droplets of Cabernet
cylinders of ash
and icy ropes of scarlet
spill from my lips
tumble from my mouth
twist down my forearm
and fall upon a page filled with nothing
but words
about you.

My process is nothing
without your inspiration
but don't cry over my words.
They're smeared enough as is
and I've harmed myself in your name
more than you could ever manage
on your own.

It just happens to be you
this time.