Facing the Wall
This wall wont even look me in the eyes.
I interpret the cracks to read its mind,
but it just sits there. Utterly silent.
My arms are crossed like a straitjacket,
keeping me from tearing this fucking place apart.
Fingers dig deep in my ribs,
looking to grasp one to cut myself free with.
The entrails spill to my feet, no pain,
just a hopeless emptiness.
I guess I’m not original, though.
Most people admit to feeling empty
but admitting to the hopelessness takes a set of balls.
So in theory, I’m fearless. That’s why my back is turned.
The disgust in her voice is like
a Freudian Mother-God wanting nothing more but to abort me.
No swaddling, just a hook through my throat to
pull me back out from my secure staring contest.
She’s vacant, a projecting glare is all I feel.
Not like a sixth sense, but a literal stabbing in the back.
I know she’d love me to watch the motion of the knife,
a smile on that face of hers,
but I prefer to just keep reading my future in rivers of the wall.
My thighs are wet from the emasculating blood.
I couldn’t put a gun to her head because I'm scared of phallic symbols;
What's worse? I couldn't fuck the hole in her skull anyway.
That’s what I call desperate.
She used to have dirty knees because I loved feeling superior.
That is until she grew teeth, re-writing my Oedipal complex,
penning my narrative into something different all together.
Now I’m a faggot. No cock to grip or place to put it,
A secular eunuch trying to find a pair of voices to stand up for myself.
This wall wont even look me in the eyes.
I interpret the cracks to read its mind,
but it just sits there. Utterly silent.
