It always starts the same way.
A sterile grey train screeches to a stop.
Fumbling feet trip over the steps.
Girls cough through soppily-sewn lips.
I am at the tail end,
blue and dripping blood from my new wound.

Then I wake, nerves tightly wound,
And make my way
down the stairs where I end
up tumbling, only to stop
at the last one with broken lips.
As I gaze drunkenly at the bloodied steps,

those taunting steps
that gashed and carved these wounds,
I continue to the kitchen, observing the eclipse,
and tossing the pain away.
I then stop,
And wonder when these dreams might end.

When I convince myself they’ll never end,
I continue down another set of steps.
But I stop.
Blood tightens the wound.
It seems too dark in this cellar, way
too dark. Then I hear the claps and clips.

They come from my smacking red lips.
I try dearly to pretend
that I am somewhere far away.
So I continue down the steps,
touching my wounds.
This time I will not stop.

But I do, I stop.
I stop to lick my lips,
my new wound.
I reach the end
of the steps.
I’ve made it all the way.

On the way, I did stop
on the steps and lick the lips,
The bloody, painted lips.