Dear. Wicked Mind
A boy was hidden in cobweb
cracks of my mind.
He liked to created dead
ends
and make me play with the thought:
I
am no hero and I never was.
The thought was a yarn ball
it unraveled and turned into a
revolver, the chamber was full.
I shoot, but the
boy with
midnight eyes and
pulps like silver stars was
a fragment of a hallucination.
I was the target
that filled
themselves with shotgun holes.
“Stop fighting, you won’t win.”
His voice like
branches scraping off
each other’s bark.
Crack
Both of us looked up.
The roof of my mind
had fractured.
jigsaw edges lined each side.
He smiled with
crooked
teeth like gravestone
markers placed by people
that didn’t care.
Crack
Fingers brushed my face
they traced a fracture that formed
down my right eye and around my check.
The cracks bleed and smaller
ones entwined with flesh.
“I’m breaking you. I’m winning this fight.”
The boy mocked, but fingers
traced glass cut edges.
“You’re wrong.
You’re not winning this fight.
This fracture is proof that I
haven’t been fighting back
as much as I should.
I won’t let you,
my dear, wicked mind consume me.”
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