My wunderbar baby is caressing my head while it's resting on her thighs. Her uninhabited mind suddenly inputs a question directed to me:
"What are you thinking of, love?"
"I find myself thinking about how I remove your dusty shirt and open up your chest with a blunt butter knife.
The opening is an anxious chaos seeing how it's irregular on both sides.
I drop my eyes in your ribcage and I get my hand in, in order to find them.
Instead of my muddy eyeballs, I accidentally gather chips of your decaying heart.
I get hungry.
So I start ingesting them.
But you don't wake up.
I sense your pale skin and ask you: Why don't you wake up?
You don't answer.
My eyeholes scream and start broadcasting tears"
I then mistake:
I search for my baby's reaction
And all I get is the coldness
From the cement on which
I was laying my head.
आप पढ़ रहे हैं
I spit mental disorders in my free time || poetry and prose
बेतरतीबstarted gathering pieces of my traumatised selves while playing the therapist
