

You Never Asked
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.
The Frown
“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.
She Left Him In Chicago
“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.
Don’t Dunk Cookies in Rotten Milk
Fortune doesn’t come to those
Ignorant enough to believe that
No one is irreplaceable.
Despite one's greatest efforts
Even the most prestige will suffer the
Ragnarök if one becomes cancer upon the host’s skin.
For cancer must be cut out early to prevent the spread of its fatal disease.
Understanding this sooner will make it easier for everyone.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
A Message in a Bottle for Mom
Mom,
I still stand by the last message I sent you in that I truly hope you’re happy wherever you are. Whatever you find yourself doing, even if you’re still with him I love you regardless of your choices.
We have a house now and I started writing again. I’m not too bad at it as you predicted and I know you’d be proud. No kids from us yet and I think that'll be our fate without them, but the cats are still tearing shit up like they are still young.
Maybe one day the vacant seat at our dinner table will find warmth in your presence and we will laugh about how silly our disagreement once was. I hope this message floats upon a digital ocean until one day it may beach itself into your feed.
and I hope you’re still fighting against the world with the same tenacity you taught me.
With love from your son,
—Eriabis (Chris Sadhill)
A Mother’s Sunrise
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
Les Amants: Till the Gallows Do We Part
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
A Spa for the Tortured
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.
A Spa for the Tortured
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.
Live: #8 Different Set of Eyes
What if you were blind? —You’d never know how lucky a Chinese meal could’ve been.