you are a moan that
crawls like a tarantula
down the hall to my room.
papier-mâché girls dance
in the garden, wild women, burning
with their dreams of becoming
skeletons, and through their
parchment skin i can see their
wasted hearts struggling to beat.
a dead boy visits me at night.
i lie rigid in my bed, paralysed
while he stands by my window, white
as the underbelly of a fish,
still dripping with water
from the ocean that stole his life.
and i can still feel their hands
as cold and rotten as the hands
of a corpse,
the prick in my backside while
they fill me with their venom.
they rape me of my life
and i hear someone wail
in the darkness, as godforsaken
as the howl of a dog who has discovered
its owner dead.
i vomit and it comes out black
my heart is the ugliest part
of me, but no one will ever see...
and these walls,
oh sometimes these walls scream so loud.