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you filthy whore, that's my avy?!!?!
jk
She was/ is open to everything,
everyone, everywhere.
hard to approach;
easy to obtain.
She doesn't/ won't speak with words,
just condescending actions.
like bearing the bad news
with uncrossed legs.
She either will/ won't be back
that is, if she ever leaves.
if she ever closes the windows,
locks the door and calls it a night.
I doubt she'll give/ take it away
she's much too indecisive,
all these options and she's yet
to choose the portal to "home"
I refuse/ hate to be the one
for the monster
she's become. I don't want
her to see the rising sun.
our-son.
Primal Scream
Catacomb Cathy,
this woman is a tomb.
Echoing voices
leaking out through pores
into rivulets of reminders
running into her corners.
Doors that open to empty rooms
filled with the ghosts
of those who've left.
She splits herself
like hairs,
victimology collected
at the nape of the neck,
a noose to hang herself
on her own separation anxieties.
We fill the holes of absence
with regret,
collecting memories into boxes
to remind us
we were once whole.
Hoarding shards of glass
from former reflections
that prick from beneath the skin.
What sins are locked behind her doors?
What faces haunt
her midnight hours?
Their portraits drip heavy with tears
until watery paint
clouds her eyes.
And as she feels the emptiness
crawling inside,
is it any surprise
when she screams?