Hidden under his skin like a whisper
is a statue of soot and suffering, a hymn of a day long gone
when men were bruises and women
A day of endless days.
He feels it with each breath, a growing reminder of his dwindling
and he gasps the sharp edges of fear at night,
fighting his ribs for air because if there’s one thing he’s good at
They sewed her up with hope and polypropylene
And sent her to what they assumed was Home.
“See you in two weeks” they chimed and she
laughed, because what they count by weeks she counts by
and the sound of young lovers
kissing on the overpass at night.
There’s an intruder in my house, Doc,
Not like the ones I woke up to all these years
This one smells like lavender and pleasantries and calls me honey with a sweet southern drawl like a long lick from the back of an ice cream spoon
Don’t get me wrong – she’s all right I guess
Wearin’ pearls to a rager and smiling at strangers–
I would never.
Miss Risperdal? you called her – a name of happy white whispers
Lilies and lies, like eating candy at a funeral she makes
me feel sticky shame and not
Myself and I just can’t keep her around you see I just
don’t trust people named Betsy.