Disquiet
It's in the gloaming
in lingering twilight
that beside me the disquiet sidles
clouds idle, the violet of a bruised eyelid
and shape of fingers broken
and long healed
permanently wrong.
Inside me the violence is silent
but wants me pried open
wants my right hand knuckles swollen
wants an explosion
The release of a fight
so long denied I've forgotten
how my nose feels broken
It's ironic, my kindness.
The lie of my niceness.
How I hide behind politeness.
I'm like a vegan that ate meat as a child and loved it, devoured it, cracking open the bones to lap up the marrow, who greedily suckled the fatty sleeve on a new York strip, who now frequents dreams where steaks make blood puddles all over the plate. In the dreams the blood tastes of violence and light, when she breathes she can taste the death in the silence and in the blood on her tongue she tastes life.
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