Literature
The Past Is Never Gone
The Past Is Never Gone
by p.b. wells
there are nights
when the wind laughs.
not out loud.
worse than that.
it laughs inside the walls,
inside the glass,
inside the little wet meat
of my skull.
and I sit there,
one worn-out man
with a drink in his hand,
grinning back at it
like some poor bastard
who has finally been told the pistol
on the table has a bullet
with his name on it.
good.
about time.
not weather.
not thunder.
not some holy choir
warming up behind the clouds.
no.
this is better.
this is the old rot
finally splitting open.
this is the lie
standing naked
under the cheap yellow bulb.
this is the moment
I have carried in my mouth
for years
like a razor blade
I was too proud to swallow.
I remember the room.
I remember your hands.
I remember the truth
trying to crawl out
while you smiled over it.
I was the ultimate witness.
you wore
that practiced little smile
while the truth bled out
behind you.
you thought nobody