The door is oddly unlocked
As I turn the **** subconsciously
For whatever reason.
It creaks open,
And the soft afternoon light
Suddenly becomes blinding.
The floorboards twist,
Turn,
And scream under my weight.
And it begins to feel like
Someone’s been here before.
But I shrug it off
As if it’s nothing,
And keep going.
I send my feet to the living room
Step
By
Step,
Someone’s definitely been here.
But I shrug it off,
Not fully believing it’s nothing.
But nonetheless I keep going
into the living room.
Yes, that is where my feet go.
My eyes cannot fully register what is going on.
A scene out of a tragic painting,
Blood is dripping from the curtains hanging.
And there it lays—
The thing of ultimate dismay.
My mother,
The one who birthed me,
The one who raised me,
And the only one who loved me
is dead.
More dead than the ants we step on from time to time.
More dead than those who came before me
Hundreds of years ago.
More dead
Than my soul could ever be.
My mother,
A tapestry painted with blood,
Lays there
Desolate and beautiful.
A tear streaks her face,
As if to say,
“Why must you leave me in this place?”
I suddenly feel
That I’ve seen that look on her face.
I close my eyes,
As if it were all a bad dream,
Hoping to wake
And have some coffee with cream.
But I open my eyes to my mother’s demise,
And my ears start hearing
The sound of my own screaming.
The tears keep coming,
And she feels nothing.
She’s been stabbed
By someone who feels like me
repeatedly.
Blood spills out of her wounds
And I suddenly feel
That it once coated me.
The tears keep coming,
But I say nothing.
This tapestry
Was painted in blood.
And the artist,
I sickeningly realize,
Was none other
than me.
