Small piece I wrote at 4 a.m.
|I wonder if the bags under my eyes can swallow all the currents|
weighing my face down. Maybe I'll be able to stare at the ceiling
Maybe they'll push their way to the back of my head and drown
out all the masochistic thoughts my brain concocts.
A medley of chrysanthemum and daffodil petals
ravage my hometown like a hurricane.
Swarms of bees leave me covered in honey.
My mother always said that it was good for me.
She probably wanted me to choke on it.
My father dragged me out of the goop.
He found everything sweet in the world to taste bitter by the age of 40.
The two of us sit on the floor of our decapitated kitchen. No dinner table.
Just the two of us on the floor. Drinking black coffee together.
Our family garden burns down before our eyes.