this is not pretend

"is it weird that I talk to imaginary
shrinks?" no. it's only weird if they
talk back every day while driving
home the cars between me and the
lights are cliffs and I can feel
myself yearning to breach their
edge. I curl a thousand gorgeous
passersby beneath my ruthless
machine treads, my fingers lose
their grip and I begin to spin.
their faces hold my eyes.

and in my dreams a lover shouts
all that he would not dare. he
keeps these words when I make my
misstep, inserting them into this
charlotte's nighttime weave. they're
monsters haunting me.

these woes of day could circle
round my head like crows sweeping
in every second beat to tear a
strand of hair out of my scalp.
this is how satan's birds will  
leave me bald.

and when my crown is raw
they'll move in for my
eyes and find my heart sewn in
beyond the cornea. i'm lost and victim
to these birds, their siren's shriek like
mermen hung in dry, with none but
Night to hear them cry.