Not Talking

I know you have pain too
my dear
we all think ours is the worst
and it is
as we die, each one,
of over-consumption
or thirst

I have walked in your shoes
a thousand times in your dreams
It is mine that do not
seem to fit
tied here to this merry-go-round
with cackled faces and bobble-head dolls

I want to scream myself
into my own resurrection
as my chest gives birth
to this unrecognizable thing
with an agonizing heartbeat
the color of gray slime

And you say...
that's nothing,
but you don't talk about
your nightmares...

TC – January 2009