Clinging--
Closer than Snow Storms
Cling to Death,
Hearing the Whisper
of a Crackle as
The Wax Weeps
Down the Wick.
Clanging--
Four Chimes
Ringing in the
Silent Night,
Searching
For an Audience.
Can't hide from
the pain in your chest--
It's deep. It has roots.
My blanket--
It used to be magic.
I would come home--
Crying,
My bed would greet me
in its usual fashion
and I would flop,
pull the edges of the blanket
and wrap them around me.
And then I was safe.
And then I was warm.
I was invisible in my
cloth burrito.
My blanket is fluffier.
More fancy. Regal even.
Queens had down comforters--right?
It's not the same.
It's too soft.
It hasn't been cried into for hours,
or filled with crumbs from snacks.
It isn't stained from being used as a napkin.
Ringing--
In my ears,
The Silence a Cold Mirror,
but Every Time I get Close,
my Breath Fogs up the Glass.