Friday, March 30, 2012

March 30

March 30

I run to the door hopeful
that he is there
but my brown eyes swim
with terror
as I open the door
to the gunk of all my
rotting in the hollow
of my skull.
I sit at the kitchen table
nibbling on the bonbon
of sin
until I cast off my identity
on the scent of gardenias,
lost in a subtle metaphor
of blood festering
in a crypt.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Blog Archive