Sunday is Breaking

i ran through myself
through the glass
through your hands
through the night
to this morning
to this mourning
this requiem
requisite thundering
faltering memory
glasses half full
and the bottles half empty
i fell in love
fell against table tops
fell down the stairs
and fell into this
blackout and breathlessness
waking to silence
your coma my medicine
sunday is breaking
and something is broken
blood dries and eyes open
you sleep until 2pm

and i have time to dream

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

I feel like I should give this poem context.

I like to explore darker, subversive and challenging themes in art, whether visual or written. I don’t believe that art and literature have to be aspirational, inspirational or positive all the time. I don’t believe that art should be followed as instruction. It is there to be interpreted and understood subjectively, as it is created subjectively.

So, for the record, this poem is not autobiographical. It is a work of fiction. It is also not about a perpetrator and a victim. No gender is specified at any point. Take it from the person who created these characters and facilitated their brief appearance in poetic form that the violence is equally given and received, sexual and desired, although not intended to be a representation of the safe, sane and consensual BDSM/kink community, and not necessarily framed by an emotionally healthy relationship.

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