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I could tell you all the things I want to, my love
Thorny thoughts on a brittle vine
The poisoned drops of ink, spill like summer rain
Tell me again how everything will be fine
I’ve crushed my hands and broken my bones
So I can never hold a pen again, my love
The words will never touch a page
They will never see the light
And before I go, leave the earth
I’ve buried my journal deep down
Immersed it in soil, rich in minerals
My love, my pockets are lined with stones
This poem first appeared on Prose.
December Lace is a former professional wrestler and pinup model. She has appeared in the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times, Pro Wrestling Illustrated, TPG, Empower Magazine, and Ghostlight, The Magazine of Terror. She placed fifth in the Molotov Cocktail’s Shadow Award Contest for Poetry in 2018. She loves Batman, burlesque, and things that go bump in the night. She can be found on Twitter @TheMissDecember, http://decemberlace.blogspot.com or in the obscure bookshops of Chicago.
Lonesome October Lit 