ERIC BOYD

six worders & short stories.
UNTITLED(old piece written while drunk, maybe five years old now)The angst of our younger dayshas gone as sour as the whiskeyand as rotten as our fathers promises        “no, this will not last        and everything gets easier.”fathers only mean that for themselvesin their graves and half-asleep to theirchildren’s memoriesthe feeling does lastit lingers and scrapes at your skinand leaves such tiny scabs you cannot pickand you think your lungs are gonebut it is only your heart forgetting to beatso blood and air can pass

UNTITLED
(old piece written while drunk, maybe five years old now)

The angst of our younger days
has gone as sour as the whiskey
and as rotten as our fathers promises
        “no, this will not last
        and everything gets easier.”
fathers only mean that for themselves
in their graves and half-asleep to their
children’s memories
the feeling does last
it lingers and scrapes at your skin
and leaves such tiny scabs you cannot pick
and you think your lungs are gone
but it is only your heart forgetting to beat
so blood and air can pass

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