Tuesday, April 19, 2016

A rotating shell

There has been silence for weeks
Words dried inside my throat
Before reaching the cave, my tongue
Longing for fluids, let’s make it sharp,
Some hot stuff, I’m used to sensation
I feel watched, every letter I speak
Turns into a textbook
Printed by a no-name publisher
To become part of the rows in your shelf
You are my only collector
You rip apart what you don’t approve
I am scared now to speak, to think, to whisper
My mind
A rotating shell, emptied out
Swimming in dreams of a dream
Lost in the night
You wandered off to your war zone
And left me alone in the pitch black park
The wooden bench too cold to be seated
I stood there, worried, for seconds
Filled with painful hours

Every second on endless repeat