The Prodigal Daughter

This is something I have been working on…Happy Halloween

Horror Show
	
The room is technicolor red
And square with high walls
A false window of hope on the side
Filled to the top with glinting
Razor wire sheen inviting peril
Blindly being chased by something
Intangible she falls in after
Climbing up the ladder and is entangled
Ribbons of blood split
Forth and make beautiful her
Contrasting white neck, arms, parts
Extracted now into geometry
She was not the chosen one to escape
It is instead the American Heroine
	
Now a west Texas slaughter house
A meat market closed in yellow hues
The blood looks like rust and real
She is the whore nipples shown through sweat
Running in a maze of meat hooks and pliers
Here the monster is real and large
Lumbering through what his mask
Reveals as a life lost to a
Broken childhood of ugliness, but he
Is tangible and can touch you
With his saw it's a love for flesh
And the whore is caught trapped
And he is showered with her blood from his implement
	
She is a gaunt and skinny a teen age
Sister she sits near the phone
As he escapes the frustrated hospital doctors
Their foreheads knotted in deep concern
For the well being of others as his
White walled hand reaches her with that knife
Down the stair cast in shadow the of
His Trapper Moon face of february no emotion
Was is best feature in this feature as she scrambles
Yet she triumphant in her tight jeans (not
						to
							tight)
	
Plain jane escapes the incestuous death note

I have come to a conclusion. The only way to fight it is to write about it in response. I am working up the muster with vigilance. There is nothing left to do when you have been reduced to someone elses words. You must react with your own words. You must make it a war of lines and stanzas.

Aphasiac is just a clever word used in irony. It’s not something that I actually believe he is. I am ready to write my fourteen day response because now I am angry and that anger has temporarily replaced any feeling of love. It had to in order for me to collect myself and pick myself up. I am not going to give up, but I am going to “fight for lover’s rights”. We are connected wether or not he wants to admit to being scared. There’s no way to cut the cords until death.

so none of it exists anymore. i am convinced that love doesn’t exist again. i thought that it did but it must have been a clever rouse. he fell out as i fell in and i guess it’s only ever equal for so long. i was so incredibly happy and it doesn’t seem like i can get that back at the moment. but it’s all only seem. the way things appear at the moment through my perspective. it kills me inside. what happened to something that someone did feel? where could it have gone? i speculate so many things that my brain becomes a mass of branches twisting into one another. i think that maybe he thinks he can’t be free and be with me at the same time. i am not willing to buckle under his perspective. i know what we had was genuine. i know it’s not completley gone. space. space to me feels like death. i am trying to be optomistic. i left my key. i deleted his number. now it’s just lonely waiting. my mind is playing tricks on me. you wouldn’t know unless you’ve actually felt it. and wouldn’t understand otherwise. it wasn’t like anything else and for a while i felt like we were untouchable. like we were the subject of every love poem ever written. and he wrote like he was in love. i feel tricked. but he still hasn’t made up his mind and i am in limbo. waiting….