Monday, February 16, 2015

Phantom Itch

The sweet, rusty taste of rot has finally faded away, leaving behind a wound that has slowly settled into a pink pucker of gum, creeping inward as if it were a sea anemone folding within itself.  It's briny and soft to the touch.

Sometimes I can still feel the phantom itch haunting between the crevices—I'm tempted to slip my molar back into its socket and wriggle it to root.

You were young and you'd stare
With a reverence unimpaired
There was an echo far and faint
Beneath the air remained
You were young and you'd stare
Where my limbs hung far and fair
Make a ladder of what folds
And climb up in me

You push and you pull and you tell yourself no
It's like when you lie down, the veins grow in slow
You push and you pull
But you'd never know
I crept up in you and I
Wouldn't let go.

No comments:

Post a Comment