Herself can feel you, Friend,
rocking her ....
back and forth,
forth and back.
Herself's eyes couldn't gush
anymore tears
unless they
were a geyser.

There are so many
things Herself wants to tell
you, but if she opens her
mouth, she knows it will
only let out one long
drawn out S-C-R-E-A-M.

Herself's mind is filled
with starry nights and bursts
of sunshine so bright, they
blind her. Then there
are the shadows hidden
in a darkness so deep,
Herself can only hang
on by a thin string
to her psyche.

Herself is in here fighting,
my Friend. Please don't
give up on her.

She sees a can of chicken
soup laying on it's side.
Herself's eyes focus on
that can as if it is her
only chance and last hope
of finding a better place
... where bats in the belfry
won't attack with
the viscousness
of constant blurs
of bad dreams
... leaving such
a gleam of sweat
on her, she knows
she must glow
in the dark.

She is in here fighting
... trying to fight Herself
out of a panoramic
display of oddities
best left out in the heat
of an arid summer day,
to become limp, parched
and die a slow death.

Please continue to be her
chicken soup, Friend.
Spoon feed her your hugs
and words of assurance
until her insanity leaks out
like a faucet with a broken pipe.

06/19/2006

Author's Note: Writing this in conjunction with Friend.

Posted on 06/19/2006
Copyright © 2024 Kyle Anne Kish