you will sit at the kitchen table
on lonely nights, with an
empty mug. the walls will
stare back at you.
your voice will echo in your
skull. the furniture will hear you
breathe; you will be silent,
alone.
you will grow a million extra
fingers because you want
bad luck. but they will turn blue
and fall off,
because you are not holy and
because you are grey.
because you served a nightmare for
dinner and a knife for a
midnight snack.
this blood is in your eyes.
