Guilt
Guilt
Comes under the cover of
The new moon.
Some singular, self indulgent bite ingested. Fragments of desire that bubble in a cauldron Deep set inside the belly.
A foam that rises and releases and sits in our chest.
It clings to skin, microfiber tentacles anchoring in every fold, spiraling into the lines between the Ripples on the fingertips.
Suctions onto the buds of the tongue and races, tiny mud slides barreling to open capillaries. Erupting, They spread a fine pink across the nose and cheeks.
A choked sob at a traffic light and the wet cleans the insides of my eyelids.
A flash as I'm suddenly transported into a technicolor Attic where I am both Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing. I don't know if I'm driving in the stake or pulling It out.
It's hiding.
Searching the currents inside this electric moment, I let the spike break through like a finger in a bruised Apple and I am back in the car. My throat and chest-dusty from the bomb flare.
I wipe my eyes at daybreak. It's evaded me again.