There is a subtly unsettling humming in this house,
Rustling voices of spectres threatening to run their claws down the skin on my back.
My stomach is a permanent stone;
My blades ache from the tension of holding all of them away.
Every breath is stuffed with scratchy fibres.
Skincare bleeds right off my face,
It is stuffy however wide I keep throwing the windows open.
This recalcitrant, imperceptible miasma of discomfort.
Maybe I need a giant fan.
Minced meat tastes like ground glass,
My gums swell with a feverish distaste towards everything I chew.
I dip my entire tongue in a sugar bowl,
Dip my head back into slumber.
I want to seep into the soil,
Become one with the fabric of air like dust.
The pulsing of chaos won’t stop, won’t yield.
Where is the secret door?
Pass me some numbing cream?
Needle me a thin, silent path to worm my way out?
Please?
Minky Moments 