By Jenna Reimer
There is something at my door.
I feel it, I smell it.
The door mutters - sick.
Footprints of water trail behind me;
Old bath water gargles down a rusted drain.
The indifferent world loiters outside
Drunk on hostility and pissing out moons.
I remain still, naked, no body of my own
But the puddle of cold water at my feet.
It seems most unatural to spare me.
Spare this dream that dreamed me waking,
Will dream me dying
In a fire's center of tired shadows
Of bastards and whores,
Obscene shit, of suffering.
I am home.
I am not home.
I am afraid.
If anyone had been watching,
They would have seen me weep.
I can tell you have been reading bukowski!
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