Old skin,

I swore,
I would not make

But here I claw
In all my flaking majesty...

Some sordid Lord
of  all Misrule,

a gruelling fool
inglorious

anathema
to pitiful anatomy...

I drive the screwdriver through my own heart and
Stuff the open wound with my fist and
Swaddle myself in threadbare cloth and
Get to work,
Gathering up the pins to
Try and stitch my skin back together again.

Looking up at me with dandelion glass baubles for eyes,
Say, "What about tomorrow?"
I shake my head down at you from my magnificent children's playset
My neck cracks when I **** it to the side
I whisper in singsong,
"I think we should stop."

Six children and a suburban home
Don't it hurt you to see me like this?
One of yours, and still so alone?

First daughter assigned third wife
I've done it all wrong again,
Haven't I?

Sprawled all across this spiky green turf
Drinking up the merciless sunshine
Trying to keep it down

Weeping about my friend's father
Watching for a hint of remorse in your stern frown
I wait for you to ask for my forgiveness
Go on, ask
Let me for once be the one to deny

In this drafty bedside cavern
I lay with my feet up against the wall
tap tap tap
Held up over my hard head
Resting against the hard ground
Back here, where my pillow is my headstone
This palace is a burden,
Utterly insufferably forgiving.

Fantasy hits the ceiling
A dream shot from my mind
CRACK
Moonlight shines through the cave's newborn fissures
Useless to me
Uselessly groveling under shadowy sheets of sky  
I need this sterile fluorescent light.

It dances across my face
pitter patter pitter patter
It drops into my eyes,
Falls into the chasm between my lips
Cold and reeking of rot
Cold and tasting of an invasive species of mildew
I swallow, choking back tears
I eat it
It eats back.

The realizations smarts me in the chest
The horrifying transparency falls out from under my teeth
Without the clash, I am lifeless
Left crippled
Watching it crawl away
Untouched
Through blackened eyes
Grizzly and ugly and growling
I have never been beautiful enough to be art
I have never been gifted enough
To make an art of it,
My circumstance
Curled up in my work clothes on soundproof sheets
Preparing for The Slumber