an answer

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).