I was

always here

but never used

stuffed in your corner

collecting dust

as an afterthought.

I became a convenient illusion

over a viable solution.

You always said,

“Maybe tomorrow,”

but not once did you reach for me—

Never asking to shield the rain

under faded skies

or to cover your pale and weakened skin

from the scorching sun.

Why?

You preferred getting wet

over asking for help

and eventually, they found you

face down

having suffocated in your tears and sweat

retching up half-chewed pills

and enough cocktails to down a steer.

Your body glistened in the rain

under neon lights—

A cobblestone grave,

and a pond of puke curbside.

Pixie dust still clinging to nostrils

fresh enough to sniff again

if you were still alive.

I was

always here

but never used,

and you never asked for an umbrella

so instead you drowned.

“All I ever wanted was to offer happiness—

I just never thought it’d be at the expense of my own.”

My smile.

My fake fucking smiles

hiding the blight

while darkness

overshadows light.

Haunting echoes of laughter

spinning off fan blades

and hypnotizing me into nightmares—

Only then do I fall asleep.

I leave the paint on

so, I can sell this bullshit to the mirror

in the morning.

So, I can start my day with lies

and end my day with…

…pointless puddles of pity

no one cares to see—

No one would pay to see.

I paint the floor with tears.

Pollack splattered upon my feet.

I melt like Dali into the floor,

while the stranger in the glass

wonders what his name is

because no one ever asks his real name,

and he’s already forgotten it anyways.

He is just a clown for hire

who puts on a Happy Face for a discount.

“I sit in the dark because that’s where he left me, so I know it’s where I’ll find him. When I do, I’ll show him a flash of light keeping him there forever.”

The city stench followed him home like a stray dog looking for handouts, but this time it competed with the unfamiliar singe of cheap sweat from another vixen like me. Smoke traces the contours of my disgust while I watch him fumble his shoes off at the door. I’m invisible. I ash with revulsion while smirking revenge. Darkness hides the cruelest intentions, even those ending in murder.

First light

over mountains.

The brightest blue eyes

you’ll ever see.

My sunrise peeks

above the foot-board horizon.

—My baby.

a

Happy Mother’s Day

for me.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

No promise can be forcibly broken

if we insist that nothing comes between us.

This cloth sundering our lips

is merely the grand drape of our affaire—

Never their barricade to our love.

Our passion is an insurgency that will blaze on post-mortem despite it.

A linen kiss;

Our crowning embrace until we head for the gallows.

The audience clusters outside to behold the finale of our melodrama,

and I yearn for your naked touch once more.

We squeeze with the thrills of memories afar.

and soon memories afar are all we’ll be, but not without this last mutiny.

Our love is why we’re here

so, it’s only fitting that this is how we’ll part.

If only we had run away instead,

we could’ve left our decrepit marriages dust bound—

Never stealing from our spouses their lives,

but we wanted each other so badly, we consummated our new life with murder.

As the noose is placed around our necks, our future is revealed;

It used to be a cabin in the woods—creek side in autumn.

A rope swing hung from a front yard maple; A few leaves fluttered down.

Our kids chased the dog in the yard or she was chasing them. We never knew.

but now this Townsquare has become our château des bois and our maple has been cut and formed into a stage with a drop floor and a single rafter.

I'm glad the rope still swings freely.

Lines of blood form our signatures on death certificates,

as the last words from condemned lovers are confessed.

“Our love was a sin coiled around our hearts,

and we were unconscious of it until we’d became its servant.

We stand proud of our reasons, but not our actions.

Our admission heeds a warning to any lovers too weak to see it through, like us.

I did the deed myself and she drew up the plans. For our love, for everything that we ever felt, and for the possibility of true happiness

we would do it all over again, tomorrow.”

The floor opens…

...Catherine Miller and George Smith parted ways at the Gallows on Feb 3rd, 1881. It was 11:20 am.

The clouds shed not one tear for them. It was a relatively sunny day.

the Painting:

The Lovers (Les Amants) by René Magritte

1928. Oil on canvas, 21 3/8 x 28 7/8" (54 x 73.4 cm)

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Instead of cucumbers

I place pickles over my eyes

because I prefer to think that self-induced agony

makes me stronger and more resilient.

I am a glutton for punishment,

so, I lay back and let the brine work its way in.

Never wincing—Never offering a single reaction to its burn,

but my retinas are on fire.

The cohesion of pickle juice and natural saline

works its way toward my brain

like a starving parasite eating its last meal.

I welcome this torture

because I find comfort in pain

and already know the sting will fade away in time,

or, I’ll just become too numb to feel it.

After all, pain is more familiar than love,

which for me is like love,

because it’s always there for me even when I never need it.

I deeply appreciate its loyalty and commitment,

and though it’s not reciprocated, it’s unconditional.

I light a candle to unwind.

A flickering flame soothes my unrest.

Lavender releases from the wax prison it was held in,

but still, I prefer the Sulphur of a match

over a deceased flower’s final excrement

because the aroma of hell is how I relax.

Dead Flowers and hell. They’re both the same anyways, right?

Everything revolves around death and ends in death.

Even while the oil bleeds out of an unsuspecting aromatic herb,

its beautiful aroma is squeezed from its last breath.

So, everything is resolved in death.

There is only one place for us in the end. For me, it’s hell.

So, I decided to get there sooner by living in one.

I wonder if they can make a candle that smells like hell.

Do you think they can extract the essence of a decaying body

and place it in a wax jar like they did that Lavandula?

I flip on a tune,

to set the mood with my favorite soundscape—

A waterfall crashing into a rainforest.

Now that’s a sound I can drown myself in.

It spills down from three thousand feet above

and smothers me like I'm being waterboarded by nature.

How interesting that water gives life, yet can so easily take it away.

Angel Falls is not my guardian protector,

but it is a fallen angel I must protect and guard

because she lifts me up closer to heaven than I’ve ever been,

then drops me back down to earth where I guess I belong. For now.

I place a warm rag over my face to simulate the Amazonian climate,

Then turn on the faucet to full blast

so, I can practice how to breathe.

No gills mean there is a struggle,

but a struggle is what I crave.

With every gulp of oxygen I lose, my existence fades,

and I start to appreciate all the small things a little more.

Who knew being closer to death,

helps you love life a little better?

Why can’t I just get there on my own instead of forcing it?

Am I fucked up for living this way,

or is living this way how I fuck?

The timer blares a turbulent cry,

and my deprivation is complete.

While the tank opens to birth me back into reality,

I can’t help but wonder,

If I am reflecting on thoughts of death because I want it,

or if it’s how I cope with knowing the fate of humanity.

The salty bath I floated in slides off me like water repels oil,

like cheaters repel love.

and like humans repel humans.

I rinse off my secret thoughts in the shower,

dry off self-hatred with a towel,

then put on a costume of lies so I may enter the world,

and on the way out I schedule another visit

to my torture spa.

I can’t wait to live again,

next month.