Inner City Hauntings

This one was just published this last semester in my community college writer’s publication. I was blissful, as it was my third official publication. I foresee many more to come in the future. Again, sorry about the stupid spaces between lines, I’m still becoming familiar with wordpress.

Inner City Hauntings

 

At age fifteen, Diandra knew all too well

the frustration that came

when she couldn’t get her baby

to stifle its cries for her loving

at two in the morning,

after she’d spent the darkness

at her best friend’s house,

putting her nose to too many

countertops, hoping to find her sanity

in a life full of mistakes

and midnight makeout sessions

in the back of his car.

 

She wishes she could rid herself

of too many demons

floating around in her bloodstream,

making her veins heavy,

and her heart slow.

 

But when she looks into the mirror

all she can see are the bulletholes in her eyes

left the day she saw her father

writhing in the street,

the blood around his head

a perfect halo

painting the muddled image

of the thug life

he chose at eighteen

as the only way he knew how

to provide for his family

on the streets of Brooklyn

when all he wanted was out

of the rat-infested apartment buildings

and the cigarette cloud

of frequent attempts

at amnesia.

 

So she cries

to the razor she calls a paintbrush

leaving perfect little designs

Picasso would be proud of

hoping to hide the ghosts that pulse

between the temples

where her goddess

is suffocating 

from too much wrong adventure

and not enough breaths

taken in the sunlight.

 

Last Thursday night,

when she couldn’t stifle

the cries from the baby crib

Diandra figured a little whiskey

in the baby bottle never hurt anyone

so she cradled him in her arms

breathed kisses in his formula

and prayed the Lord to keep

him silent while she slept

the afternoon hours away

in regret,

tangled in the blankets

on an adventure only her brain,

high on pixie dust,

could feel between the memories.

 

Maybe instead of being afraid

of the monsters hiding under the bed

she should worry

about the spirits dwelling

beneath her fingertips

when all she wants is to find peace

at the bottom of her wine glass.

 (c) copyright by Rose Kendall 

 

 

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