Punch Drunk


spiderdarkShe crafts paper spiders
To catch the things
Creeping inside her.
Swallows them whole
When she thinks
No one is looking.

No one

Is ever looking.

Maybe that’s why
She cries herself to sleep
Night after night.

And maybe that’s why
She’s punch drunk
Every mirror in her home.

She can’t look either.

Her skin
Is a paper thin
Road map of scars
Hidden beneath fabric.

The only ones to see those scars
Are the passing men
Who never care to look
Beyond her bare breasts.
Tiring themselves
While she’s left empty
And restless.

Inside her
She finds a hole
She can’t dig deep enough to escape.
Pin pricks her fingers
Praying to God
That she’ll wake up
And this all
Will have been a bad dream.

This ain’t dreaming.
We aren’t dreaming.

We are so many
Pieces of shattered glass.
By people who could no longer
See themselves in us…
Or through us.

Forest fires
Washed into so much smoke.
Leaving us
Unable to see;
Unable to breathe.

We are lengths of rope
Others have used to swing,
Leaving us only enough
By which to hang.
And we
Can’t hang on much longer.

You are not alone.

Intertwine your thread with mine.
Fragile as I am,
I will hold you.
Fill your breath.
These barely beating hearts
Will match in time.

And when we fall,
Let it be into each others’ arms.
For I promise
To see you
For you.
Not use you to find me.

You are not a beacon home,
Just a beacon,
And I pray your light
Never stops shining.



About St Basil Z Fish

Curator of the strange and incredibly awkward. A rambling writer with the misguided notion he has something to say. His only redeeming qualities are his wife and children.
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