Just some tea and some cookies
sitting in a room full of doilies
in shapes of all kinds.

Doilies of African apes,
of firebirds and lion cubs.
They were in fierce poses,
fangs sticking out from fat lips and
terrifyingly sharp beaks.

Doilies of the face of your mother when she found out what you did.
The lace was perfect for her tired eyes.
Doilies of the face of your father, after he passed,
lying on a hospital bed in the middle of the living room.
Doilies of a man who wasn’t…
Isn’t.

Doilies of spiders crawling in all the notches
of your heart.
Most of the notches were made by yourself,
so don’t cry, baby.
Accept what you’ve done to yourself.

Doilies of your parasitic nature.
A visual representation of art that feels better as words,
but hurts and is more effective as a vision.

Doilies of you sitting on the couch in your apartment,
dying slowly every day without anybody to join you on your
death couch.

You know you can’t run from this place.
There is no running from it,
until, maybe the next life.