You, and your black-eyed
holes, nights lied, from my pillow
talk of nothing true.
“How dare you,” I cry.
leave your clouds of crusted white,
on the feathered down.
Twelve moons greased away,
still, you growl in a red mask,
toothpicks pop a heart.
No bones out of meat,
crank my legs like chicken wings,
finger-licking bits.
Loose, goose-pimpled flesh,
slides to the floor under-gowned
leave your eyes, my room.
Photo credit: 
The picture above, taken by
Sorry it's a bit dark because I'm really feeling much lighter than this today--just baby dolls crouched on a metal shelf!
