To make pictures from,

these pebbles in the order

I feel. Hours in the sun,

mom cries, pulling

at her air, where

is your father? I know,

I saw his face filling

with blood–

with stones moves

my voice. Listen.

The bearded man, he tries

to tear out my emotions,

how are we today? I watch

the clouds, how they would look

in stone. I throw up

in the bathroom, remembering.

Grey is safe, my heart

is black and red.

I kneel, drool spilling from my mouth,

see the hollows of my eyes in the water.

I stand, break the mirror, rocks are

my fists. Listen.

The nurses they come, mom watching

her TV, stuffing the phoneline with her tears.

All the drugs make me distant.

Where is your father? He is dead,

I scream, Dead.

I throw stones at the sky,

listen to them fall like rain in the trees,

like bullets, like blood.


Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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