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ANOTHER CHANCEー how little our brains know of the gloriosa daisies that grow from our throats and rot between our lips.
i blink. twice. thrice. until i feel neon lights piercing through my eyes, the smell of rotten bones and carcasses of what seemed like birds and broken ribs lay beside my arm, and then the sudden slither down my spine and there, i feel the crawl in my skin I've been feeling since i felt cold ice cubes pressed against my eyes, to shut me from the noises of dogs and lying monsters.
that was mother's way of showing tiny paths to "light" sometimes under the closet or near the sink. and when i finally register where i am. i smile. maybe this is heaven. or hell. or a realm my sister tried to warn about. where you could hear the cries of children i crushed a bullet against. they are loud. they are melodic. i embrace each one of them. i can't see them yet my Bosom is filled with tears and blood and mindless rhythms of old songs and nursery rhymes i once heard my father sing like a silent prayer.
now, here i am waiting for gods to decide what the wounds in my life meant. the neon lights begin to glimmer. and then the sounds subside. looking down at my hands, i see the self-injured wounds shaped in the form of smiles, continents, the arch of a shore, the arch of a moon. i see the broken bathroom tiles. the neon lights have gone and i realize it's the glimmer of the moon against the white sink. and this is what the angel that sang orphic hymns wanted me to see. but i don't want this. this scentless alitame of one more chance in living my wounds once again.
