We're Okay

Every deep-note breath is

a line in the masterpiece you write,

and in my estranged secrecy,

I believe it’s for me.

In the corner we hide

behind inside jokes and cotton candy,

satisfying our addiction

to innocence.

Under the night-blanket we rest

while a dysfunctional dreamcatcher

hangs menacingly over our heads,

like a rain-cloud marionette.

We are guinea pigs,

experiments gone awry—

we are artifacts, ancient literature

lost in translation from scroll

to book.

Ink seeps from our

eyes and ears and mouth.

Ink like oil, shimmering,

hidden colors,

staining every high-class page

with our low-class language.

We whisper distorted dreams

into each ink clogged ear,

kissing slimy ink coated lips—

flooding every open wound with

black opal gush.