Wicked

Waring witches doing that dark magic that they know so well,
eating my heart out, they fight my brain for control.
I can taste it.
That devil work teases me back home to my holy flesh,
my subtle ways of rabbit hole hopping.

My god, is there an escape?
I feel old and without a pattern to follow.
My path is non-existent.

I feel pulled and prodded
fitted into crawl spaces,
closed closets,
the furnace room in the basement,
the rafters of the attic
are stained with my blood and your tears.

My monsters are screaming,
howling for a change in the wicked weather,
a fucking break from the normative.

Can I stop the dying?
The angels disagree,
the verdict is still left out
by the trashcan on a Thursday morning,
forgotten.

- Megan