Sometimes there is nothing
inside me, just a dark palace
no lantern could entice
a way out of.
Sometimes the yesterdays
build up on the walls like mold,
hanging from the candelabras –
spiderwebs, just thicker,
harder to dust away.
Sometimes the child I once was
sits quietly in the dungeon,
a chain and lock around each hand,
gazing up through the bars of her prison
into my eyes: her only window.
And sometimes I feel her twitching
inside me like a reanimated corpse,
the shadow of a smile playing its way
across the skin of her stitched,
twisted, well-worn lips.