A washing machine hymn,
spinning the sins of yesterday,
clean clothes bleeding in sunlight,
scratches etch secrets on the air.
A girl-child sprawled on asphalt,
cotton slip, a ghost’s armor,
a dagger gleams in Jesus' eye,
and somewhere, my shadow laughs.

I made it back,
red doors collecting whispers,
the absences of children echoing.
No pills for this madness,
no mercy for the lies my mother
folded into the corners of her soul.
Truth’s ghosts die like martyrs
while my third eye cracks wide open.

Acid drips from my lips,
prophecies scrawled on sidewalks,
and I’m not high,
but I see it—
the collapse, the rise,
the sharp edges of time,
splitting me from the center.

There was no pulse.
She’d overdosed, slack,
white foam on her lips,
a classic whodunit—
but the culprit was clear.
It was us.
We ****** each other
with quiet hands,
without shame.
Not everything’s a mystery.
Sometimes reality is what it is:
a cold slap, a silent room.

I’m not here for this.
I’m here to refocus,
to zoom in,
to get my apology.
Otherwise,
what was the point of all this suffering?
How did they get away with this—
the lies, the silence,
the slow burn of cruelty?

“This is best,” they said,
abandonment wrapped in soft words,
a mother’s back turned to the light.
I wait, patient as winter,
for her end,
honesty’s blade in my hand.

Sugar and salt rim the glass,
cocktails of loss swallowed whole.
Everything’s funny in the dark—
they left for unsung dreams,
forgot me in the shuffle.
I hit the ground again,
words spilling like blood,
cold turkey with my soul,
waiting for the rhythm of a door
that never opened.