The milk never
came after you were cut
from my body
on your birth day.
I went mad
for you.
Shaving each valium
with the blade, I
strain to make it
into unlickable dust
so I can stop using
them.
It is hard to look
at this tiny skin of truth
in its flakiness—
I might want to die
again if I go
off script.
While you sleep
during the day I lie
stretched taut on the
rack of blue denim couch.
I binge on a tv series
about a defective
family, the Mum
a reckoning power
house, hoping you
won’t wake up
so I can get to the end
of another episode.
When I hear your
staccato whimpers
my pressurised
guts rush down
the chute of my body
to slosh in my feet.
Power surges
through my
house, your cry
is the only thing
I can answer.
