I tell you I’m in trouble. Crunch of footsteps on the gold stair,
crush of teeth to red-skinned fruit. Two days you lay with that witch
before your guilt grows down like a root, cages you in promises.
You always did have a thing for older women. I should have known
when I smelled the salt on your breath, an herbal sexhale.
As if a tower is ever just a tower. As if a pumpkin is ever that.
Every story ever built has a window of some sort. A proverbial hole.
I’m your wife and daughter both. How’s your Oedipal complex now?
I’m going to let my hair down for every man who kneels beneath me.
That’s not a metaphor, daddy. We all grow our own thorns in the family plot.
Even braided, silk sheets still show the stains. Every time I cry, you’ll see again
what mistakes we’ve made. People escape to their deaths all the time.
Image: Taken with MacBookAir upon waking up.
Words written at the Jewel Box.
Time Taken 6.5 minutes.
Brain on fairy tales, love, the ways we get tangled.