Its needle-thin fingers are
black like deep shadows,
Gnarled and deformed
as if run through a blender.
I can hear It dragging itself across my cheap carpet,
wheezing like a broken accordion.
It only comes when the yelling starts,
When monsoons flow from my mother's eyes,
When my baby sister runs to my room,
a blanket around her face like a Russian doll,
Her eyes painted a dim blue
And her face wet and smudged—
It only comes when my darkness matches Its own
YOU ARE READING
My Asphyxiated Mind: the Works of a Lonely Poet
PoesíaThe introduction to the dark slimy chasm of my mind. This collection contains poems that are dark, humorous, and relatable.
