70. Black Spit Rages (Then)

The Woem Stoene Dissected

When I think of you, father,

there is a cold burning anger

and a vision of blackened wings

upon your shoulders.

I turn to see you shrivel

curled up like smoke

as you fly into a darkened sky.

Your insides house

the foulest of liquids

which you transfused

to this body

that now drowns in it,

chokes in it,

stomach turns with it.

And black spit rages.

I stood in the shower today

and spit three times down,

ritual to rid me of you,

vile sputum ejected,

when I think of you, father.

Words form bubbles

frothing from my mouth.

Dying soul gurgling

its last breath,

wheezing and gasping

in the heavy thick air,

the smoke you created

around me

surrounds me.

My tongue thick and swollen,

despair in its buds.

Speak! Speak! Speak!

But teeth do their work

biting into the sounds,

permitting no letters

to form,

to escape.

The secrets we keep.

The secrets we keep.