They haunt my night dreams
indifferent as cats,
pungent as sweat
or a sticky back seat
or my sheets after ecstatic hours
spent melting flesh into a form that resembled love.
Audio loops of conversations play back in my head.
I talk to them, schizophrenic,
make mad communication with ghosts
and softly
under my breath
conjure demons.
I have given too much to the cult religion of love.
Knelt down before false idols,
licked phallic symbols like a praying priestess,
threw myself into the mouths of liars.
I confess -
I willingly pressed their teeth into my skin,
leaving a Braille hieroglyphic speaking pain and scar
that I longed to see a “good man” make right.
I confess -
it was my own devout journey,
my holy fool’s pilgramage in pursuit of a promised land
where fields of love and comfort would await the desperate chosen.
Weary and wandering,
I imagined one phantom oasis after another,
set my temples upon each mirage and made burnt offerings
to shadows that shifted in the sand.
I confess -
each time the whole wretched mess ended . . .
I missed them.
I said so.
I gave them that gift of my weakness
so they could feast upon my bloody truth and grow
fat and full as springtime ticks.
I was tender,
honest,
delicious,
but sweet goes sour,
soft skin thickens to hard hide.
Such is the nature of scar tissue.
It grows unsuitable for feeding,
tough and cool to the touch.
The blood clings to the bone and won’t bleed.
Parasites will starve or leave.
It’s not a plan,
or a hope
or an uplifting song of self discovery or strength.
It’s just scarred bite marks,
so many
that they cover me in intricate pattern,
chainmail
with the beauty of delicately woven antique lace.