Day 6

For today’s prompt, write an addict poem. There are lots of possible addictions out there–some of them serious and some of them not so much. For instance, there are times when I think I’m addicted to work and pop (“pop” is what we call soda or cola in Ohio, where I was raised). Anyway, I realize today’s prompt might stir up some skeletons for some folks. For instance, I doubt I would’ve ever written my poem today without this prompt to prompt me.

[geez.  i try to be positive (as I'm certainly feeling positive!) but these prompts. .  .    'S'okay. Still anyway wanting to finish the Lifeguard book although the skeletons need to keep dancing some for that to happen].

Black Thing

It was so obvious to us.

It was so simple.

Just don't - don't do it

and all the petals will stay on their flowers.

This thing you do, how your elbow bends.

Don't do that and we can stay and laugh

and never grow old.

And that, how your mouth opens that way.

If only you would just not do that,

we will not begin to die like this.

Nor you.  More important: nor you.

Please.  It's simple.

Isn't it so simple?

Just don't don't do it.

That.  Just don't do that.

How your mouth opens

and your head tilts back

and you close your eyes

in ecstasy of oblivion

while we tug at your hem

and say, "We're here.

We're still here.  Please!

Just don't do that thing."

And in the bloodstream

the spirit stirs awake.  We tug

at your hem, say, "Please.

It's so simple.  Just don't."

And when you open your eyes

they are black:

the whites are dimmed, the iris: black,

the pupils widened, widened, widened and black.

The eyes look down on us.

And the twisting mouth opens, differently.

And the Black Thing snarls.  It says,

"I hate being a mother."

And - that fast - 

there is no trace of you in you.