when I was a child

nothing was more romantic
than becoming a serial killer
and nothing more disturbing
than getting married

obsessive thoughts muddled my mind
& at nights I enjoyed counting
popcorn on the ceiling as I
braced for a house fire

I threw a sleeping bag on the floor
ragged and worn, it held me
& I felt my anxiety melt
into a self-warmed slumber

the loneliness never consumed me
as books absorbed my mind &
my ego contorted into a mess of
centricity and shamefulness

even now there is nothing more
familiar than the cyclical embrace
of a constricting memory
wrapping round and round

or the repetitive
drone of the chicken song
it plays over and over in my head
for years

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.