I’m scratching the wounds of aches long past
Of nights where the moon looked down on me with pity
When I was an animal
An owl
Sitting, perched in my tree bed, a celestial being, draped in white
My tears, the milk that nourished me.
My blood a foreign substance,
When my thoughts were a drug with poisonous symptoms
Turning me pale, turning me sick
-
I’m sifting through the thoughts of people long deceased
If only I could stop raising the dead
If only you could bury ideas with people
So that every single martyr would go forgotten
-
I’m aching aching aching
For a drug so decisive
That I can get rid of emptiness
Pump something so genuine into me
Something to make me, not-quite-so-crazy
-
But in the end I’m still awake
Until I find myself in someone else’s sheets
Not quite together
But still not alone
And then there’s temporary calm
But not the type you’d think
-
I’m not what you expect
A child of the midnight anxiety
That flows through my hair and across my lips
I’m the offspring of the night