Nonsense

A House Without a Room
The scar on my youthful wrist told a story of a child without imagination. Everything around me blossomed except the flesh on my lips, constantly drying and falling away as if to remind no words should live beyond thought. I hid in the attic for two days, mute, scared and gauging out spider eyes with jagged fingernails. A million miles from the technology of understanding and forgiveness it would be water that would lead me out to grasp the candy bowls filled with collective abuse. I am a hundred years away from the poem that has lost its rage but only a shadow away from my lover.