Words crawl down your back
like sweat maggots, bulbous
in maternal frettings and those chaise lounges
built just for you, of
spider-scratch notes and
those monotone, illustrious blabbermouth
nods arisen from purgatory gods
with PhDs. They're esteem conjures
phantasmagorical paths down
your mind's scar tissue, with they
armed with medical tomes.
You just whisper, we'll see.
In your mind I must be
an alpine sylph who lives in corridor echoes
and between pages of your old school books.
When we meet I whisper
of grades and talk and tennis games.
You hand me a razor blade, a tissue.