I don’t talk about God with my mother
I don’t tell her a lot of things
like how I struggle to sleep, or laugh
and go through another day.
I tell no one that I am sad
How I let my soul wander
and it goes away. I don’t talk
about how I don’t care anymore
if it returns. I used to talk to my father
about myriad things
But I let him wander, I think
my soul walks with him.
There’s a dungeon in my head,
where I have chained myself
To walls slimy with the sweat
of lives long gone, where the light retreats
through a barred window, where darkness
saunters in, whispering sweet-nothings,
whistling in my head. Come sit with me
awhile, I’ll offer you a meal
made lovingly with hands
that pulls apart the meat
digging into flesh. Forever trying
to wash off blood you do not want to see.