She reminds me that I am still awake,
shy and brilliant eyebrows,
a figurine that plugs me into the memory,
is she a beast to touch me,
paint mockingbird songs on my chest wall,
it’s blood.

Old joy formidable,
talk is dusty winged gnats sputtering,
holding my skin up for a pursing,
you justify an organ sewing neat,
so breathing in a carpet of flame,
it’s blood.

Melting pills and darker poison,
feeble wicked paper mind,
she’s running in a steel rose room,
spinning me dizzy with foam,
caged door screaming shut,
it’s blood.

Hands coin fooling,
a dime existing at your doorway,
adieu to you with cries and whispers,
the nickel framed light,
a storm in the blackened aisle,
it’s blood.

Sanguine existing,
the nails of a merchant’s art exposed,
pale lip to the arduous scheme,
am I cemented inside,
moiled tormenting on my warm head,
it’s blood.

Awake and watching you,
organic fuel towards the sun,
a milky silhouette concedes the dawn,
am I a beast to touch her,
paint mockingbird songs on her chest wall,
it’s blood.

Christopher E. Vaughn


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