Honesty avoids me and the shovels in my eyes, increasing dependency, foiled debris, and lies like the flies that warm my dirty bed. They're reminders of the emptiness and things I should have said, dreading the hospital doors in my head. Linoleum floors are just cures for the dead..
where incisions lead to operations, fluid's over-saturation, bandages, and drill's vibration. Doctor's armed with medication for another deep abrasion, shoving needles through your lips. Scalpels trace pale fingertips until they lose desire's grip. Stitches taste like gasoline before they start to rip.. Itchy, damp and drastic, stretching like elastic while your eyelids are unzipped. Hips are wearing rusted chains and diamond shackles to restrain a beauty that won't look the same unless it leaves our veins.
Honesty avoids me because it can never restore the damage I've caused which is best left ignored.. So it's stored in a storm cloud to shelter the gore and cage every whore I've become.
Yet I'm trapped in the walls. I collapse in the halls, but doctors have no interest when somebody calls. Acidic dreams and manic screams keep me awake, so I shake and take what's left of me and chew on broken glass. Panic increases erratic breathing, and maybe I am never leaving, but at least the shock has passed. Wrapped in a cast, I rock through this wasteland while bones scratch my insides to mock..
but these hospital doors never lock.