The ego is greedy,
it clings like a viper expelled from the garden
screaming aloud
like a split atom.
Prancing on my belly,
another color begging me
to perform, to memorize,
my drama,
bleeding inside
like mountains of
tongues slapping in the dark.
The nerve at the center of the bone,
blooming in my skin.
My threads of indecision,
as I hang by my fingernails.
A voice screaming for me to jump,
a stagger
in my eyes.
Something shaky and terrible,
the sour reality that rolls over and over
in my throat
dreaming myself afraid so
I can save myself.
Only the bone-deep children echo
the bloated words that drift and drift
in a razor sky.
The ghosts of old lovers
who smile from the jukebox,
with eyes
that can never close.
You have choked me,
But I gave you the leash.
And now I want it back.
The skeleton’s meat and blood
wringing from me,
graves of soft earth that rise from the rain.
I can see you now,
So you, hated twin,
you are a radio fading out,
the old bones of lava beds,
a thousand miles away,
a dead language,
a tomb.
I finally woke up
and turned on the light.
By Rhonda Morrison Nov 2018
Sable Press