Anathema

I never recline in splendor, I never take repose. The eyes of an old woman are blue and stick to me like insects to a screen. She is not hating me, though there are those who hate me, so I never lie in repose for fear that if I agree with the vulnerability of sleep, I'll make my own murder. I don't embrace the unconscious or analyze my dreams. The eyes of people who hate me might be spiders crawling on my hands, or snails that leave their shells, but I will not allow their acidic tounges to touch me. I belive in ghosts only now that her blue eyes stick to me like humidity. I will not outgrow my spite, though I read books that instruct me to. No, I'll always lie with my sleep beside me like a knife. I forgot my spite, once, only to wish I had not: He lay me upon the bed, crossed my arms across my chest, then fell to me, pressing a book between us. I never lie in repose. I am not a portrait. But I think so still my joints ache. One day, he shall not be the same (as I have never been the same), and we shall read upon his stone a verse attributed to my name. This is my foresight and my fright, blooming red in his eye's white.