Poetry

The Waiting

Photo by on

i send it off,
words bled onto paper —
each raw, jagged,
stumbling out of me like locals
from a boardwalk dive-bar
on a Sunday morning.

somewhere,
there’s a mailbox or an inbox,
and there’s me,
checking notifications
like a battlefield medic
frantically triaging fallen soldiers.

days stretch like old elastic,
snapping back to remind me
of nothing.
of everything.

maybe they’ll say no,
maybe they won’t say shit —
just silence,
the kind that hums in my ears at night,
reminding me how small
i really am.

i wait –
writing, reading,
drinking, swearing,
drinking, thinking,
waiting.

i tell myself
i don’t care,
i never fucking cared.
but i do,
because in the end,
it’s all i’ve got —
this bleeding,
and the waiting.