One day when it all makes sense, you’ll realise that
you really do have spider hands and a poison-mouth; the one
your mother always said would ruin you, spit venom
onto your skin, the way a knife kisses open wounds. You know
the story begins somewhere here, but it always ends in tangles,
and look – you’re making a mess out of yourself again.
Bad girl. Silly sad, lonely girl. Running around with no socks on,
getting dirt everywhere, DIRT (and it really is dirt); you almost
wanted to call it earth, or soil, or something almost-sweet,
and not as ugly. Nothing is more honest than the ugly.
Here, I’ll give you my ugly. My burnt bread crumbs,
hidden in old shirt pockets, in between loose strands of hair.
Layers upon layers. The night my mother screamed at the thunder,
out on the balcony by herself, under a wolf-moon; howling.
Screamed and screamed, and came back after an hour,
only to say: I’ve been speaking to the clouds, after I asked her
where have you been? And really just thinking, at that moment,
WE ARE ALL INSANE, and beyond insane, and every time
you talk about jumping off the god damn balcony I want to laugh
and swallow the earth until I can feel the thunder in my stomach,
that rumble, that fire, the words that burn. Bad girl, says the man,
lingering in the shadows. Bite my hands off. We don’t want to talk
about the midnight ache. The incessant dogs barking,
the neighbours fucking, the quiet wake of suburban dreams
in the darkness. Her voice nothing but an angled silhouette,
cutting into the silence I created: I don’t think I’m alive sometimes.
Well, I, I don’t think. I don’t think. This house breathes like a drum.
Ba dum, ba dum. She falls back asleep, as I lie awake
hoping to dream about myself, waiting for the hazy night
to settle into my eyes, so I can see my face more clearly.