calling you names

you write so beautifully
believing in blue blood sanity
of your warped damaged head.

i'm almost in tears. pity?
hell no. i'm not your embarrassed aunt.
i'm in love with what you have to say
admittedly with a prelibation of your pain.

it's time for anafranil the nurse calls
seeing how you drool angelic
scribbling line upon line till it is illegible
unintelligible or in god's own.
tablets seep deep into the shallow cut,
the freshest of them all. you recall in brief clearing
of the nauseating scent of picked flowers
the purity of red. you're too tired
to think of failure or success. will you dare live?
not because you kiss his hand
rather, pathetically,
you haven't the strength enough
to ward off the cracks in the mirror upon mirror.

true.

your brushstrokes may not enthrall all
but are hard enough to dethrone who you were
capsizing, dead drunk with vodka eternally happy for a second.
past brittle years will skulk at the stench of the doctors
meaning to help, certainly, with their libidos intact
you don't doubt their sincerity. they wear your mother's coats.
as the song goes, you shall overcome those.

but you will always reel back

at the sight of the girl with ruffled hem of skirt just above her knee
staring at you and you hear
the accusations. you are hopeless.
no one defends you with a straight face.
she bellows in sleep where you're clubbed to death
while in wake are stalked by the four walls volleying
whispers you can almost taste but never define
we are sorry. you are the victim.

her ugly marionette. her beautiful pathetic doll without hair.

nurse the ghost seeds to spawn, and pierce your innards
like the very real hairpin you swallowed. i don't give a damn.
if only in fits, remember
you are the body, the mass.
the definition are your words.
i care for you deeply.

fearing that someday you may overdose yourself
i send words out before it is too late.
i have loved what you have to say
admittedly with a prelibation of your pain.