Break this Glass that Holds You

(written when I was 16 and in a bodycast)

My Mother is an oatmeal blanket
Knitted

Softly and wooden

(Unknown

Assumed)

Denying the ‘mommy’ spun of flesh

She vomits processed sugar 

I am my Father

I feel Nothing

It’s blinding and deafening

It’s sickening

I breathe 

And these are the only words

Left

Inside or outside

I’m sinking in water

I’m pushing 

Back tears that have pushed all else out

There is no room for me

There is no room for me there

is no room for me in 

These bottles

And bottles and

Bottles of Demerol.

Poison poison medicine. 

I wish you the best

I wish you could pour me in

Dirty puddles

Frothy Oceans directionless

Anything better than this: 

Intricate knots of agony 

Bound 

Inside my muted screaming
Screaming daisies

I love the Fog and

How the Name ‘Mary’

Is distant and sacred

Some things still mean Something

Like you and your eyes

I and my Love

And my lost sense of finding sense

In meaningless 

Meaning. -clw 

5-6-98
copyright: C. Ward 2016

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