Poetry

There’s always the question
of what you’d cure.

“Wouldn’t you like to be free?”

Sometimes I do.

My brain is a fice, a vice,
swirling thoughts when I don’t want them
but emptiness otherwise.
The wheels of my aid roll loud.

It’d be nice to not be tired, I think.

—

When I meet her, everything clicks.
She’s unnatural
with an air of the uncanny,
not to mention the fangs.

Her voice is like lace & linen—
woven, delicate.

“Wouldn’t you like to be free?”

—

She told me this:
whatever stays,
belongs.

—

When she drinks my life—
elegantly, lavishly—
she’s telling me: stay.

How could I leave
when she promised me solace?

—

My aid’s wheels still roll loud.
Whatever stays, belongs;
I found peace in the change
& in the things that stayed.

I wanted to be free
but sometimes I’d rather be me.