Music Box
strangest disease keeps
me alive with toxic daydreams dripping
over me like holy water in
baptism—now you are bound
to evers and afters
—sealing me in
eternity so my heart doesn't
crack. the antidote is cold as
morphine shivering in my marrow
(i have tasted it before and
death held my hand murmuring
never, never; i can't go back).
fictions burn like fire sparked by
electrocution: locked eyes and
conversation smooth and cool as
acrylic paint on our fingers. deliver me
a little death: i'm drunk on hallucinated
romances, addicted to the heart-stopping
hiccups and adrenaline arpeggios becoming
my pacemaker (if it falls out
of these reasonless rhythms, it will be lulled
to sleep). i crank the handle of
this music box, keep turning out the sound
of true love ringing like wedding bells in my head so
my heart will keep going in circles. i can't
drop the veil between my eyes and night closing
around me; when it takes your hand and pulls
you into the ground, i will spontaneously combust and
return to dust. so i keep singing the same
song of ghosts haunting my dreams and pretend
they're with me to keep myself alive.