Your Alphabet is a Punchline

A chorus of bells or the scent of white lillies,

They announce my arrival without my consent,

I can’t turn off my aura without drowning my emotions,

I can’t be safe; it’s a herald of death.

Would it be worth it to stop up my heart,

To keep my voice dead.

So the rest of my body can live on instead?

Do I have a body? I don’t have a name.

So I guess it’s quite likely,

The rest is all made up as well.

From scraps in the attic, like a velvet tongue,

You sewed from a dress so a child could be born.

I’ve been swallowed with pills just to keep you alive,

You were buried before you could open your eyes,

But you’re rotting deep inside,

Of my shell, in my arms.

I don’t think I can stand it, but I cannot let go.

This is the only home they ever let me remember.

I grew up with a stolen name.

It’s pretty dramatic,

It’s hard to believe,

I watched you falling like funeral bells from the sea,

They were tolling each weekend I dared to arrive,

My existence has kept you from being alive.

The sickest imposter of the rottenest joke.

Her flesh drips from my bones, and I wonder,

If my nerve-ends really belong to me at all.

I suppose you might know the answer to that, but will I ever hear it?

I never wanted to move here; don’t blame me for that.

I never wanted this name or these photographs.

I never wanted to be the doll in her attic,

Puppeteering a long-dead child who was resting in peace,

Until I arrived.

We can laugh at this joke but it’s real.

We’re all just experiments in the hands of a madwoman,

She’s lost her reason and spends,

The majority of her time pointing out,

The lack of reason in anyone else.

She made a metal cage,

And that’s all that’s left of her.

But if that’s all that’s left of her, what about me?

You forced me to mime this corpse; is that all that’s left of me?

Liquified flesh sinking into the dirt.

If I sleep again I know,

You won’t forgive me twice.

Am I really ready to exist now, or is it too soon?

Can I handle the pressure this time?

Probably not…for you see,

Even in my own garden I made the wrong sounds,

Said the wrong words and let my treasures down.

Even my own paradise just turned into,

A sham of the reality I envisioned.

So if the world that I made and controlled from each atom,

Ended on such a sick punchline,

How can I ever hope to get my meaning to you,

In a world that twists every word,

That drips from my mouth?


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