Char

I make a home out of ruined bodies,
Ghost doors opening into charred bones,
The kitchen sink still leaking last night’s bloodletting.
I scrub the floor before I slip in, embrace the god
Of weariness, just to watch the roof cave in
From blunt trauma, concussion, the percussion
Of living too quick—cigarette flare, drag, burn & butt.
I dwell in the darkest room, where silence sleeps
Like a tired cat, curled on the ledge, hoping
That the sun, the moon, the gloating stars see.
The bed is against the wall, a flat surcease
that carries my blood before the goddess of memory.
I make water out of thirst, the desert's desire
unquenched on the slow peeling walls.
From the oesophagus of silence, i fetch
sorrow with my cupped hands—an unrocked cradle—
I give it a name that is unpronounceable—speaking
in tongues used by a god too blind to see
the world tumbles into oblivion.
I wash the charred facade with the ochre of dust
the way Sahara burnishes the blood of stragglers.
Gods, I bathe in the corruption between sweetness
& pain. I do not walk out of this homemade horror,
this poorly stitched pretence at existence.
I dwell, a sentient temple of forgotten things.
I survive, a caricature of love unfurled for
every forgiving hand to touch & say amin.

Image Credit: Pixabay

Always,
Osahon (Warpedpoetic)