talk to me

snake-jawed, i swallow the sun —

it promises warmth, and there is none. 

casting shapes of some life i've bent:

a lion's mouth, a strange lament. 

and they talk to me about orange bottles,

demonology, prism, and prison,

and tell me of places

i've already lived.

i press deeper in. i bruise my bed.

and they say no, the nice doctor isn't going to use your blood for witchcraft. 

and no, there's no predatory entity unleashed in your dreaming.

no, Lilith didn't eat your baby.

no, there's nothing in the crawlspace.

maybe you should pray more.

maybe you should give someone your keys. 

and the others say nothing 

at all.