Poetry: A Thousand Times

I die every night.

Sometimes murder,

sometimes suicide.

I watch the people that I love

get taken by death.

I watch them die.

Unable to help;

forced to listen to

their blood curdling screams.

I can’t get it out of my head.


I’ve died a thousand times

and each time it does not get easier.

Each time is different,

by a different hand.

I’ve watched the ones I love die

a thousand times

and each night it never gets easier.

I’ve watched myself kill people

whom I’ve never met;

felt their blood splatter on my face

from a severed vein;

felt their hot blood drench my hands

while I’m holding the knife.


I’ve watched my hands

push her off the light pole,

felt her hair brush against my fingertips

as she was falling down.

I’ve watched the hands belonging to me

impersonate my darkest thoughts,

but the actions are not mine.

I’ve dreamt this a thousand times.

And each time I know

that I’m to blame.


I see a person

once called a friend

hanging with a broken neck

by a bloody, frayed noose,

from a decaying, rotting tree.

Eyes like the darkest night

staring through my soul.

The blood ices over inside my veins,

I breathe not air, but icicles.

With every breath,

they rip my throat

and tear through my lungs.

Her gaze never breaks from my eyes.

She screams, “It’s all your fault!”

from beyond.


I try to run,

to get as far away as possible,

but I am rooted in place

like a tree in the forest.

You fail to see

that I am the tree.

I’ve died so often

that mentally- I’m out of reach.

I know what is to come.


I’ve felt Deaths ice cold breath down my throat.

I’ve smelt his rotten flesh.

I’ve tasted his bitter tongue.

I’ve heard him in the wind,

rustling the leaves on the forest floor.

I’ve seen his black, lifeless eyes.

-14 February 2018


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