The Visitor

August 27, 2010 at 12:26 am Leave a comment

Sometimes I can’t contain it.
It burns under my skin, crawls
up my veins and clots in my heart.
It pumps me up and puts me down,
drags me through minefield-memories.
It doesn’t like to see itself reflected
in the faces that populate my dreams.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like
to cut it out of me, but
I’m too attached to the skin and bones,
the physical entity that makes up me;
how could I plunge that blade in-between
ribs, twist it like licorice, red
pouring out of me.

Sometimes I close my eyes and listen
to the drip,
like rain against a tin roof.

I don’t like to look at it
I don’t like to breathe it,
swallow it,
shit it out.

It’s an unearthly disease,
rotten with remembering.
It doesn’t know how to forget.

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Entry filed under: Poetry.

Wanted Nolan Makes Us Think Again

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