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.