PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Tell me the most precious thing you have. It can’t be something you were given and it can’t be something that you’ve bought. It can’t be something that you feel and it can’t be something you’ve been taught. It can’t be something you can smell, see, touch, taste or hear. It can’t be something or someone you love, hate or feel indifferent about. It can’t be desire and it can’t be something you lack. It can’t be faith and it can’t be an emotion. Whatever remains, that’s what you took from me. A little pillow. A little something that no matter what happens in this world I can rest on. A little rainbow. A little bit of custard and apple pie. A little boy. A little boy who wants to play in the playground, but his stomach touches his lips so many times a day, he’s trapped in a little box. I can see you Aya. In every dream, in every shadow, in every bowel twisting smell. I see you in the daylight. I see you on the news, in the paper and on the internet. I can see you and I’m coming for you. You were the dark dog, but now I am. I’m going to take your little boy, your little something. Your smile, your senses, your stars, your smell of rain. Your little pillow.

I’m going to give you vomit. I’m going to give you endless flying cockroaches crawling under your skin. I’m going to give you a mirror of you, with tears of blood and blistered fingers, bruised lips, limp legs and black eyes. Every night you will call my name and it will echo, and I’m not going to answer you. I’m going to give you ash and the smell of dead animals you can taste. I will give you an iron box that you can trap the fading memories of your little pillow in and you can lay on sharp rocks and your eyes held open by staples. I don’t have my little pillow. You took it from me. All I have is the memory of it. I want it back. I want to taste custard and apple pie again. I like rainbows.

Aya, I can see you. I lick your ears to lubricate your hearing, so you can hear me calling when you sleep. My song for you are the despared screams of the raped, the hollowed and the torn. I hope you die muted and terrified, trapped in your skin at the back of a lonely midnight bus. When you’re found, not even the slime blooded bitch that begot you would have the stomach to identify the eternally soulless…. (There was someones name here).