News of death

One by one, it comes back.
The stench, the twist,
every breaking point I scaled.
The sin, the iron nights and
water that tasted like urine,
all hit my chest at once.
The bad music somehow soaks
every rain my eyes could pour,
I cough a smelly sweat
Same one from grandma’s hard days
I blink, punch the wall
Lick my blood to taste regret
I hate and hear my own scream
And feel the squeeze of a dead hand
I hit, hard, heavy on memories
And all this in a numb silence
Looking in the dead’s picture to find
Life, or myself in a few years.

LARDO