a culmination of screeching car wheels,
like singing banshees, like sirens, like witches,
who cast spells on father dearest,
until her skin turned green,
and she turned into all that she feared.
house of fragmentation.
ageing wallpaper made ever more brittle by her nails,
scratching, scraping, wishing it was his skin.
maybe then she’d be able to reach in,
throw his organs at the walls, stamping on them,
bleeding some life into their deflated lung,
failing under her smoke.
hellfire, always in the wake
of a woman scorned.
it makes foundations frail,
unable to be built up once more.
broken, not quite.
fractured beyond repair?
i think the doctor would agree.
now you wonder why,
i speed past road signs without looking back.
now you have the audacity to enquire,
why i cannot play the madonna,
why i chose to run from, escape from,
avoid the question when someone asks about
four letters which belong in pandora’s box,
accompanied by me begging (on my knees, etc)
for you to never ask me to let the contents out.