the blue light specials.
they resonate the tone and touch
of the touch tone of my cerebellum;
resound in the back of my head
with whitewash.

i can't understand
what goes down when you
drown me,
bury my corpse beneath
the pier of your thighs and hips.

you. my tormentor.
none love you as direly.

i dig myself up from the tombstone,
open my grave, and visit my own funeral.
none notice when i turn up missing,
they only turn their heads
when you say to that our
lullabies are something from last week.

(you bought them for a quarter,
sold them for a dime, and
i was left there,
price tag in hand.)

08/13/2004

Author's Note: i actually edited for once.

Posted on 08/14/2004
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe