Satanic syllables wrapped in the
juiciest chew in your mouth,
And there is nothing you can do.
There is no shelf to put them back on.

A realization that those words and phrases
are ones that you, yourself, created
for only ears that would care
(but they probably won’t)
(and they’ll think you’re seeking attention)

Afraid of being passive?
…

Tell the socks on my feet to climb round my heel
and help me make it to my bed.
It’s the only place that
nightmares of lip-split, razor teeth,
jagged eyes that see me for what I truly am: a mirror.

Reflect into me and I take all you’re willing to give
so that my own forest-soul can burn itself down to
become whoever you are.

Luckily things are getting better.
I am finding red-barked trees, Oaks, Pines, Maple, Corktrees,
even beautiful Willows down by the ever-flowing river.

So hope still grows,
it grows with the seeds.

And so, as silky as those syllables felt
in my sinful mouth,
I’ll spit them out
because I created them—but they do not belong to me.