Quenching the Void

There amongst her talking dolls and bent pitchforks. With auger in hand the hole did beckon. To be discovered. There with the scissors between her thighs she ran. Adamant about the depth of the wound. The color of the scar.

As if they can be painted on. And she knows this. Because they already have. And all this skin is just wallpaper. To be removed and hung again in a different pattern.

Then this room would be so much bigger. So much more a space I could live in. With a thousand closets to conceal everything I never wanted to show.

And a million shelves to hold everything else I can't discard.

There like tourists in this life the patterns stood. Gawking. The walls accused with shadow. The windows rotten with sun.

So I'm forced to see how bright it is.

Out there.

My metaphor. Myself. Looking back to find I'm not there.

To lose again what's already gone.

Myself. My surprise. Drawing on the walls. From ceiling to floor. Chasing roads that don't go anywhere.

Serving daiquiris to the devil. Hoping the knife will be sharp enough to cut the fruit. As sour as it's become.

Spill the cutting board upon our laps and wait for the juices to tell us the betrayals that have made us better.