there are certain flowers

that can only blossom

under a blanket

of volcanic ash.

how i wish i could

shed my skin,

reveal the scorched earth

of my soul.

there are also certain diseases

that only infect

through the bitter smoke

of volcanic eruption.

how i worry

that i am less flower

and more pathogen,

better left dormant.

a road like a vein,

coursing through nowhere:

the night is dark and slippery,

oily black with a low moon.

there are eyes in the trees,

their trunks bowed low—

my fingers lock together;

white knuckle fear.

voices,

garbled and inhuman,

piercing through

the radio.

shadows moving,

sinuous and wicked,

lurching and jerking.

tires kicking up

gravel,

spinning on

gizzards

and worms

and bones.

the night,

dark

and oily

and slippery,

on my skin like a film

until there is only

fog and screams.

you have a shark’s eyes,

all glinting and hard,

sharp as a blade.

they squint as they pass

over me:

you look at me like i’m a meal.

i know you are mostly anglerfish,

dangling affection like a lure.

in kindergarten,

while the other children tip-toed

carefully—protectively—

i remember counting the cracks

i stomped and stepped on,

gleefully counting all your vertebrae

i was breaking along the way,

hoping to find you twisted and limp

on the floor like a dead spider

when i got home.

i know you are mostly cockroach;

not even nuclear fallout

could kill you.

in high school,

my best friend said

she could tell her mother anything,

and i shuddered.

you fed on me like carrion,

picking the flesh from my bones,

your talons digging tight

around my soul.

i know you are mostly dragon,

hoarding me like treasure,

fierce and fire-breathing.

you bare your teeth and

people run, but i am chained

at your side,

less person and more

possession.