Whispers to My Baby Blanket
The walls of this room feel like they are creeping in –
Silently hoping I will suffocate.
And then those shushing voices begin to crawl out -
Where I keep them beneath a sutured heart.
Writhing up my spine and into my mind - ripping up the seams as they go along - popping the zipper open link by link, my cold innards spill out like cellulite - disgusting myself with inability to control it - I have come undone -
What they tell me is unspeakable.
And since they are inside me - like termites whittle away the foundations of my sanity – maggots boiling out of every orifice -keep me from hearing seeing speaking- devour the rotten meat - I cannot escape their torments -
Forced to hear lectures on subjects that don’t exist.
My only consolation would be that revolver and single bullet. Looking around this room - turning drawers and boxes inside out -
The joke goes awry –
The bullet and revolver do not exist, either. There will be no pleasurable scent of smoke, no scurry of roaches over open eyes, one curious antennae fluttering against the still moist cornea. No stain flung on white walls for the artistic roommate to see; Very Pollock – she’d say.
If only the walls really would collapse down upon me, crushing together everything inside, compact the garbage to be tossed -
I could hear the sweet sound of nothing -Instead of those things I keep under lock and key