I Don’t Know What To

I can’t name you or call you by your name, at this time. You are streaked against the glass, your guts are spilling out.

Be brave and talk to yourself. You deserve to hear the truth as much as I do. Wait. No.
Let me tell you.

You’ve soiled yourself again like an elderly flower. I came to change you, but you won’t have me anywhere
outside of your bed.

Well my bed is too nervous to have you, so I take my voice back instead of shaming you. Wait. No. Let me hand it to you. She is braver than you.

Have you heard what they call her? Does she even have a name? It doesn’t matter. She is stronger than water and moves like a rock.

I bricked her, I blocked her,
but her head is tilted right to the life-sized bottle of wine at her side. At this time, I can’t call you, or name you, or love you, or hate you.

I answer only to the thin
glass dividing us,
that let’s nothing in.

Haunted

Midnight visits with feeble jaws,
while my teeth grind on white
horror –
my head has awaken, my body
has not.

A house is clouded with
my ghosts. Beautiful,
disgusting!
Numbing my legs with
a chainsaw gaze, I am barely breathing
again.

Her pale hands reach out
to
my frozen plan. I am barren, dry of
thought, palpitating.

The daylight brings demons enough, but
I cannot
escape the night.
It comes as expected. Never without
ugly dread
and
cold sweats. Always.
Always
soaked with paralysis, drenched
with the past.

Lingual Swamp

A filthy witch lived inside me when
I spent too much time
growing.
She eliminated the healthy bugs
that sewed my insides nicely,
that watered my battle
and push forward flowers.

I wanted to learn how to fish
with a stick. I wanted
to pick protein out
of fish scales, but
the witch said
she had an allergy. She took my stick
and hid it.

I miss my bugs. The healthy ones.
They helped me stay clean.
I cannot breathe
properly
on my own.

I grew with the witch for years,
while she sang
death march hymns. I learned the
words
and ate them, instead of the fish.

When it came time for gutting and
cleaning, I painted
my own limbs with scales
and
fished with knife sticks for protein.

I spent too much time growing
with this rapacious
witch. Her sharp teeth chewed
my affections to analgesic cream

that spread throughout me, burying
everything but
the enchantress and her
music.

 

Who Is The Empty One

The baby’s swing
swinging emptily
swinging next to me

blankly
watching the empty
swing –
back and forth
swinging steadily

the baby’s swing
swinging melodically
listening lethargically
as it swings next to me
the baby’s swing
swinging emptily

squeaking and creaking
and looking at me
watching me
sit so emptily.