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Jan 2016
i want to ***** out everything held inside of me,
yank the remnant gunpowder from my throat
and load a pistol to destroy the ghosts that crawl forth
from the cramped black holes of my memory.
The sound of your name makes my vision turn crimson
and my feet cling to the ceiling.
What you did
is too much
for me to carry,
haunting me in ways i do not understand
morphing me into creatures i cannot bury.

i never even notice you've seeped into something,
until its too late.
i surface gasping in the middle of a fit of confusion
to realize that your grubby, sticky hands
are tainting
my every movement
waking
and
sleeping,
dancing
my legs on puppet strings.
Iron-locked hinges control my hips opening,
closing,
opening,
rusted and stuck in a position i refused,
a place i did not agree to be folded into.
Weighted down by the heaviness of you
your mass
your gravity
bulldozing me into glass shards, and blindly
mixing my fragments
with
mud
and dust
and
ashen debris.

A resin of my innards is caked dry
under your ragged fingernails.
They snag at the holes in my tights
and i feel the unwashable stickiness of me
skid
against my skin.
The room is pitch black
but i can see splotched neon demons
lurking in the corner behind my back.
And the gurgling of the television
is harmonizing with my rasping,
and my tired anger,
in a key i can't decipher,
although it sounds minor.
What an ominous overtone, dangling
over our dizzy heads.
Stop trying to scare me,
soften me into your arms.

I am the monster in this room, remember?!?!
There is almost too much guilt
in my sandy mouth
to make room for another insistent plea.
Stop.
STOP.
I
am
not
joking.
I
am
not
a
joke.
I
am
not­
a
target.
Or something
to crush
and ****
up your nose.

i'm much too grotesque for any of that.
I'm the monster here, remember?
Joanna Oz
Written by
Joanna Oz
381
 
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