The Rabbit's Revenge
She pulled the string.
And the blinds opened,
baring
their glaring yellow teeth.
And the walls
continued to breathe . . .
As she stood
against the mirror.
Safe.
She thought.
In the eyes
of her own reflection.
Until their color
changed.
And her own hands
reached out.
For her throat.
Nightmare. In Red Sharp.
The hole
beneath the pillow
speaks.
To me.
Through the night.
It breathes.
Dark language
fills my ears.
Painting my dreams
in subconscious blood.
Dripping fingers snake the wall.
Stroking.
Soothing.
The way to desire.
Through a room.
Blackened by windows
stitched shut.
I walk.
Alone.
Pulling my own leash.
Leading my own way.
To a cage
nailed
before an open doorway.
I take off my shoes.
And follow this path
of glass.
Knowing the end
and the exit.
Are not the same direction.
Still I approach the bed.
Canopies flowing.
White.
Above curtains
draped in rusty mail.
Remembering.
Knowing.
Armies have slept this sleep before me.
I join their silence.
Proudly.
And cover myself.
With their hallowed death.
Legacy
Slash one.
Sew two.
Veins.
In the dark.
Sounding
a tired song.
As I go
through the rites
of this ancient dance.
Alone.
On the bed.
I remember
my mother's coffin.
And calling her
mad.
For preaching
she could die
indefinitely.
Slash one.
Sew two.
Alone.
On the bed.
I realize
I am mad.
For believing her.
A.J. Huffman is a poet
and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida. She has previously
published three collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, and Cognitive Distortion. She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review. Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/ profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/ poetess222.
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