I am riddled, I am stuffed
with the same old sadness
keeping me here
in this town and state
of mind, I cradle in
awake and cast the same spell
hexed until I awake dead and greeted
by my great grandmother. She says what a
great job I’ve done. I remove her loving hands from
my misshapen face, distorted by my own
ugliness, deeper than the skin hanging from these
bones. Clinging to a plea, my misshapen face
Her loving arms, away from me,
my weary precious spirit.
Craters link in my defense, referring to a better life
my eyes, as misguided as myself
can only capture, can only ingest
my worse, the darkest, the trauma
And what does that make of me and
who am I allowed to be?
