Riddled By Parents 3/30/15

Who are they, standing up inside me?

Why do I start at chapter three?

From conception, I've felt the unspeakable us.

Birth began my "face-bumping-into-glass" as experience.

I grow from a brittle, genetic trust.

They never asked me my name or where I was from.

They claim this body I care take of as mine.

I perform appearances with them to sooth the hysteria.

I let them encode my spine,

a record of their private traumas.

Where they are bonded together,

I am a vacant feeling filling me.

I have eyes, they, the reins of a horse.

They whip me and I cannot see where or why.

I stand apart from them and collapse into my blindness.

My anus is my only ear

they use my hearing for salt and pepper remarks.

Now I only communicate in tones of tense and relax.

Otherwise speech polarizes me.

They put excuses into my mouth to improve my smile.

I have smelled where they touch each other.

Every day they hand me

an unknowable piece of their death.

Certainty is my only near-death experience.

They often speak about touching me.

I'm superstitious about reacting in their presence.

I want to bleed then finger-paint for them to see.

I crave their frenzy over eating me.

Their thoughts use me as objects in transit.

They take their sticks of authority and beat me at loving.

My nervous system has no appendages to embrace them.

They show me what pain is.

It is the bedrock of how to value.

I feel close to their private truth by lying to myself.

Their unconscious habits preoccupy my mind.

I keep a strongbox filled with unpresentable rage.

When they take my sense of "us" and separate it,

I die every time.

When they are intimate, I want them to lie on me.

I feign intelligence to run ahead of their expectations.

I sleep with their dreams as carnal to me.

They spit on me with hollow words.

I like it.

I give them answers to be alone.

My hands are their deformed genitalia,

thunderously clapping in public.

They made me kiss success then take a shower.

I am gifted with nothing to offer them but me.

My creativity sins against their God.

I lick their wounded spirits fronting me.

Riddled by parents forces rapture in my soul . . .