I opened a letter addressed to no one
And found a wet map of my own grin.
The postmark said “Somewhere Between”
And the ink ran like a guilty priest.
The ceiling hummed its usual sermon:
“You are a question your mirror asks gently.”
I nodded, chewing on glass-handled scissors,
Waiting for the floor to finish deciding its shape.
A horse walked in, dressed as my therapist.
She whined,
“Your trauma wears a wedding dress.”
I asked for a refund
And received a gun filled with sleep.
Behind the curtain:
Someone’s mother melting into a fax machine,
My ex spelling “forgiveness” with her teeth,
A child screaming “I’m your future, father!”
While drawing on a body bag.
I stood there,
Drenched in six contradictory versions of myself,
Clutching a plunger and a birth certificate.
Someone whispered,
“Your voice is a privilege.”
And all my response to that was:
“Shut up louder.”
A poem in my usual ****** surrealistic/stream-of-consciousness style. Inspired by Not Stanley.
