Our Demons Outside

in the mirror
Our bones look for skin,

our skin for others to molest.
Cold objectivity makes those close

into strangers, while we work
to make those in the mirror strangers,

box them into academic, medical categories
Psychopath, sociopath, decry older terms

Monster, beast, demons, devils,
into those we can’t accept.

Easier to end her pain, pillow
over the face. Quell murderous thoughts

into absurdity, plain wrongness
eats away at sense, at the right thing.

Or:

It would be so easy to end it now
No. Shut up. I’m not listening to you.

How much do you think of her?
Wouldn’t it be better for her and you?

I don’t need to hear this.
Simply, take the unused pillow,

Her eyes are closed so she won’t know.
Just. Shut. Up. Go. Away.

I only want the best for you and her.
No. I imagine you in a box

I smash to smithereens. I will think
Only good thoughts. You’ve gone. For now.

 

 

via time for the temple whores to sleep with insanity and take the war out of it, a poem … and your Wednesday Writing Prompt

via ::wonderland:: . . . and other poems in response to the last Wednesday Writing Prompt

I have lost it among these others
who, like me must be more water than fire.

Hell is home to the lost
sat on plastic chairs

among family and friends
who cannot remember who you are,
recount stories they cannot recall

repeating a few moments before,
eyes do not glint but watch

with you the rise and fall of her lungs
in hope she will awake and know them.

We are all bottom bags of bones,
What’s a soul in this fishlocked port?

Goodbye is the only response.
for skeletons that get laid.

Buried in this earth going ocean.
Bones have souls too.

Ours do not disappear when skin
and muscle rot. Marrow breathes.

water locked inside a hard casket.
We yearn against dryness,

against thirst. I kept her lips
wet, wished she would awake.