Ms. Widman 11 & 12th Grade
In my sunken domain I reside
looking for cause in my life of misery.
Carrion simply won’t do anymore, I’m no mere carcass spreader
wriggling through the murky mangrove a collision ensues
my grotesque phallic body made contact with a pair
of supple, long legs, human.
Finally a life worth living.
My uneven buzzsaw teeth jam into the natural beauty
I remain piercing the flesh like an armor
the taste of live blood
my mouth a tunnel of infinite treasure.
I feel my body yanked from which it came
my hideous visage now revealed for all to
see
the sun violates my stippled skin
five fingers defiled my flesh
its blood streams from my gaping maw
I feel my body compress
my oily face pustulates with blood
I burst
submerged again in my sunken domain.
The sun shines onto my wet fur
I swim laps with purpose
but get nowhere
my life is full of emptiness
I exist for others
and when I look out all I see is eyes
looking through the glass
treating me like a zoo animal
but I thought I was free
I have blanket fever from my own fur
due to neglect
The sun shines onto my wet fur
but this time it burns
like a magnifying glass to a paper
I look through the glass
and wonder, why?
He strokes gently to the roots of my mane,
so effortlessly
as he calls himself “hers.”
He calls himself
my knight in shining armor.
To wrap himself around me
as we travel to Paris,
and make believe.
His dreams
are merely the dreams
he dreams I dream.
As I coarse the dirt
in my hooves
like toes in the sand,
my wants and loves
live between
the hay bale and barns.
The love for my prince
was for a rodeo clown.
Who would run a muck
with me through the
lilies and lilacs
he planted for us.
The boy with the
contagious cowboy laughter
that smiled brighter than the sun.
The luster lays low
on his rhinestone belt buckle
the more he calls his shining armor.
He loses his luster
as his belief for us
became a carcass spreader
of himself.
For I merely
became a pony
instead of “hers.”
To skitter is not a shame to me
it is one measure of survival I
can’t ever quit.
Fear is the light, their eyes
can see;
my thousand legs, frantic, make
a climb up the Jacob’s ladder of
a toilet-back
the porcelain is not smooth to me
its bumps let my small feelers
catch, up to my hole in the wall.
I go still to watch. I wait till
the big bones look away.
I skitter inside, dark and small,
the pleasure of feeling all my limbs
brush the walls relaxes me. I nibble the
old stolen goods, fuel preparation for my clutch.
It gives me blanket fever. They must be
warm. My eggs. Because only 1/3 survive.