Spiral

I wish he were dead
Just so I wouldn’t have to wish it anymore
My clammy, electric, childlike hands
Branded by the heat of his face
Clenching the terror of his attention
As if to squeeze the debt from his neck
Until his ledger bursts open
With the zealous rage he poured into my tiny eyes and ears
While he shook me like a magic eight ball

Crimson waves of collapsed timelines
Flood the hazy slideshow of my youth
Grainy vignettes spattered with scarlet rust
The drunken hammer of dogma
Leaving surgical, god-shaped bruises in my bones
Vision swimming in a tunnel of red-shifted grief

My gaze creeps down and to the left
Floating leisurely across the carpet
Lingering on the sharp geometry of the doorframe
And the salacious friction where beige meets off-white
Across the hall, the baseboard disappears into the turbulence of the wall with purpose
With a sudden zoom I follow
Begging the static for refuge