To a Closed Mind

Here I am: a product of coffee shop bricks and apparition footsteps-freakishly paradoxical, hungrily swallowing placebos disguised as Penicillin. I harbor words deep into my hingeless ribcage keep their tangled veins behind my lovestained, hatchet hacked Heart; They cannot be silenced. Who needs to know them anyways? They are brittle cattle skulls left in desert sun, elderly faces stare back at me, cradled in my eye sockets where they should not belong. Puppetry: I am a marionette on semicolon strings curled around their blithe and bony fingers which stroke the dimensions of my brain with pseudo-malice, fingernails dug into white matter, the right hemisphere's wounded meat. A ghost of past; inkstains still dripping like oil off severed whale bones hung to dry. My sickly verses maintain their steady cancer. Seeds I've consumed in hopes of daisies made me a deafmute Persephone, whom devours youth like Heroin. Unashamed. "To A Closed Mind" Jenna-Nichole Conrad Wordsmith