The Wife;

Call it a poem, a story, whichever- its an embellished overdose from the inside of her head, whether its from nodding off until her heart stops, or hallucinations leading into a stroke. nameurpoison

These monotonous whispers 

from the androgynous sister-

                    And with her, 

a little boy who keeps staring at her, bitter.

And she’s mad that he’s still here,

because it reminds her that she still is, too.

       But its true, 

and its still hurting her.

So she carves “SINNER” on the inside

of her thigh, with her back aligned- 

points for divine posture.

Except we still lost her.

         The little boy prompts her,

"If you’re going to make yourself bleed,

smear the color back into your cheek-

Because you’re beginning to look like a monster.”

That bothers her and starts hurting her too, 

        so she remarks:

"Just string your fingers up my arm, 

read my breathing trackmarks.

And all hail the braille, a raised flesh tale 

for those blinded by black hearts.

       Tell me what happened to our talents being solely our passions,

why are they a waste unless we sell-out to cash-in. 

And passing out to be attractive in some crystal magick fashion?--

This crystal magick lust!

       Our feelings lied and people died, but these drugs keep distracting us.

It’s just a big bug bite of apathy that we hope is a permanent numbness.

But I call this The Addict Tragick Trust.

       So we must exchange middle names to persuade

ourselves that we know each other well.

And then question the devil about how far he fell,

if he even really fell at all.

       For we are the Cold Hands chained,

and all of our veins are gone themselves.”

                   Or maybe they’re napping

                              even though it hurts her..

The tapping caused from her scraped knees rattling

              -and the way he might see-

This metronomic countdown priority is actually Morse code for:

                SAVE ME FROM THIS ANXIETY.

       The sister begins to cry

as the little boy sings:

               "It seems currently, our spoken words have turned into currency,

               Apologies are only made in vain, constantly, commercially...

               Our tongues have grown weak with manipulation- our depth is slipping...

               Accidentally, we've begun to use words to talk for us 

               and they've become emptied of all meaning..

But its not like we’d really even be listening.

Our ears are choking with blood and we’re still convinced its fun.

That’s why the pretty ones die young,

and are condemned to be sleeping in a dungeon bed

'Cause everyone wants them won and fed.

                               But you’re done, did you forget?

                               Remove from your mouth, the smoking gun.

                               Step off the stool instead.

                               Untie the noose because you’re already dead.”

     Maybe,

it was to much to inject, she slowly realizes this..

That’s why I told her not to take a right on 26th,

and no, I couldn’t be any more jealous.

      That's why we're still hurting her, 

          even though she’s passed this world.

So as the night begins with this.. don’t you dare look back.