Abused Dogs

My mind is a race for which thought will become first to think. Those tires, worn and bare, spit on the gravel like an angry dog who has grown bitter and defiant to his ungrateful owner from a slow creeping abuse. Cigarettes chained to my mouth in obsessed desperation to forget that damned race. Hands shaking, knowing the inevitable is happening in front of my face like a bouncer in a bar when I’ve had too much to drink. As I watch you drive away, aware of every hurtful action you purposely impose I know that I will wait here, pacing with the questions gnawing at my bones to make me feel alive at least for one more night.

 

Reviews

[THE BLACK SEAL]

you captured the beginning of the realization of loss nicely...the way you liken it to abused dogs and tires was a nice fresh voice for this type of thing