Calling

The canvas, heavy with my lonlieness

is still wet, dripping phosphorescent

beads of my inner thoughts

and I sit, trapped

in this house, this skin

with old familiar playmates

watching me

So I pick up the phone

and wait for a like mind to speak

on the other end

and when she does, she asks me

if I'm okay

and what do I say but

"yeah"

which really means No!

No! Not at all!

It's hard though

to convince my

tongue, vocal chords

to sing a different tune

the fear, nestled comfortably in my center

has control

"she's busy, don't bother her"

or

"she's mad at you for drifting away"

or any other combination of words

to stifle the truth

the truth!

I'll tell you the truth,

as I know it, in this moment

the truth is that those

bottles, those spirits

in the corner, in the kitchen

in the house that's not mine

whisper to me of

oblivion

and in the little

purple, red and green spot

where they put the syringe

pierced my skin

to take my tainted blood

that spot sends

vibrations like exclamation points

up my arm

reminding me of older days

Let me escape!

From those insidious

whispers that tickle my ear

and set the pleasure centers

of my brain in a state of 

anticipation

I know what to do

I have to ignore the liar in her lair

(oh sweet words)

and pick up the phone

and sing out my momentary misery

with honest

unflattering

off-tune

out of key notes

and then maybe, just maybe

afterwards

harmony will come back in range 

Reviews

[Rachel DeHart]

I know those feelings so well, and as I read this I felt myself staring in a strange trance, thinking that no one could feel it as I do. But I was wrong, and I adore this poem. :]

"and sing out my momentary misery
with honest
unflattering
off-tune
out of key notes"

Those lines, speak the strongest and are more pure to me than any I have read in a while. Thank you so much.

[Lestat's daughter]

Very interesting.