i am haunted
by sunday morning
spiders crawling
up the walls
faces appearing
sunken cheeks
rotting flesh
gaping mouths
old timey mustaches
(you can’t choose
your hallucinations)
i am not numb
i am fucking terrified
i am crying on the phone
not making sense
i am swallowing
handfuls of benzos
mimosas, crack smoke
i’ll swallow anything
to kill the grief
my father’s manic blood
courses through my veins
i am perpetually
eleven years old
standing on the beach
(helicopters overhead)
and they’re telling me
he’s gone
it’s not something
you “get over”
it eats away
at my insides
some day
this thing
will climb out
(unzip me like
a frances suit)
covered in wounds
fresh ones oozing
all over the carpet
warts hair slime
guts spilling out
gurgling
screaming
“fix me”
but it will be too late
(on that day
you’ll understand
what it feels like
in here).