Where my roots are, blood and home,
a black cat sniffs my arms; for some fool, how puzzling,
dreaming someone else’s dreams, I left to pursue my education;
I come home, not ashamed to shower at midnight,
my eyes closed, the market economy is boring me to tears,
to death—please kill me
please kill me—please kill me, cat. Disencumber the dead roses,
and I held a prayer. My ghost-skin in the mirror lurches
through a mask and summer clothes;
onto the limb of a nightmare
I become existential and depressed; everything is nothing.
After I was born, my dad called me “Lucifer.”
I’d like to think it was my namesake,
my mother hated it and would not have given me my name
if he had the wit earlier. Pity—because I embraced it,
because it was mine. I often think about it now
where, laughing, I was not afraid,
I was afraid of everything else. I had the same hope Sylvia Plath
did, at one point, in her journal—she didn’t want to die.
I never did want to die,
I just want to get rid of my identity
carry my bones into incomplete sheets,
as I writhe in body-ache. I try to sleep,
my cat cries for me to open the door,
let him in,
and lie down by me; where there’s silence,
perhaps a red vase by the window,
perhaps a quick steal of a girl’s nickel
by the subway, my cat sleeps with me.
© 2021 Pseudopsychosis All Rights Reserved.
Written for the dVerse 8/24/2021 prompt.