Mya's. Poem.

i write like this . there is pain like this . deep inside past the corners prayer can't reach . pain with the nerve. PAIN with gall . grew roots and installed itself into a story . sprouted fingers and rubbed rubbed rubbed . with hands gripping tight . refusing to leave . ransoming time while purchasing space . took out a mortgage and pays every day instead of monthly . resurrecting Itself in a knightmare posing as a dream . i close my eyes and see his many faces . not Freddy Krueger's . i stifle ordinary sounds but still hear the clicky clack chatter of teeth . not the voice of Hellraiser deep . i feel heat inside my belly where the story cooks up . bubbling into my throat behind a prison of teeth . promised not to tell . not to tell . shhhhhhhhhhh . my words retch out in vomit . flush the truth down the toilet . late night when i know the Devil sits beside the furnace in the hall . licking sticky nervous fingers . i pee in the bed finding comfort in the warmth of yellow bladder water and white sheets . fearing the strumming, strumming strumming of fingers that used to play guitar . now he plays me . fiddling with a pink rose bud before the petals bloom . the smell of juicy fruit gum (sugared joy inside a sunshine wrapper) permeates the future memories of what used to be Sunday morning peppermint. godDAMN GOD!!!!!! don't you know roses are supposed to have thorns?