My Living Document
mine marches on paper legs, tramples detail,
runs over its own mistakes again,
runs in circles, spiralling.
Parasitic bloated hungry,
mine is a vampire cannibal draining its own neck.
Stamping new ideas on top of old,
past thoughts bleed between present ones.
Now feels forever.
Mine jibes sour stories it promises tomorrow will unfold.
I’ve paper-cut eyes and fistfuls of scribble
that can’t punch through even the lightest doubt.
Gasping. Straining its leash.
This brittle cover can’t hold mine down anymore.
It tears ahead of hands, rips through pride and pants.
Its inky print stains you. My mouth says sorry.
Help me keep its wet, jaw pages tight shut.
A black blob butterfly waits inside, cackles all night.
How can I sleep? I’m wide-eyed beside you
wrists clenched, fingers spiralling.
Yours, in a dream-hammock over your head,
returns to your brain as you wake.
I wrestle with mine ‘til it knocks me out cold.