Has my trauma changed its form?
A deadly illness, starving-worm
Am I cursed to walk the earth, a
New impossible every morn?
Why can’t I leave the shadows behind? They change
And follow me
I hate their voices, despise their smiles
But I can’t stop letting them crawl
What can I do
To finally be free?
Someone tell them I’m
Bodies in the road
I see them everywhere I go
I cannot escape them in sleep
In fact, there they wait for me.
They walk out among the cars
I close my eyes and scream.
I cannot write any more. I don’t like
Usually, there is cold.
Ice and deftness, dexterity and chill.
But when the slow-deep comes, the fire
Lights in her hands. The warmth spreads
Through her veins
And cradles her heart. It squeezes
Like a vest, like a binding
The current carries her away.
She flickers out for a time
And the warmth
Stays; the tongues of flame
Lighting their own way.
Small bodies on a playground
Adrift in youth, secure
How many will grow to claim
The poisons named their own?
Have I always
Had Grim grinning in faded bone
Through my smile?
The day I die
Marked since my own life swam
Ignorant on the swings?
what does my heart detest, this
whirling, weeping mess?
I feel the sleep-chalk draw its lines
the crumbling towers, cursed vines
my time is almost done.
I can’t continue to run.
the tingle in my blood – is it?
physical or ethereal
is my body attacking me, or yet
“You’re dead,” they say. “Stop
Masquerading. Let the curtain close.”
I struggle on, each breaking dawn
cracking more fragile bones.