Fried Eye

My Illegal

Posted on 01. Aug, 2010 by Aien in Creative Writing, Issue 15, Issues, Poetry, Sections, Type 1, Vol. I

How does it feel to be illegal
To be a dark unknown.
Is it musty and dusty and cosy?
Maybe it smells like a heartbeat,
the most delicious smell.
Someone told me it has a hard taste-
the taste of iron and rust:
you get a sniff and your hair
curls up. It has a smell of shame; tasteless
like chewed cardboard.
When i think about my illegal
i stop breathing i stop eating i
stop living. My secret sucks
the marrow from my bones
and steals the shine from my sun.
it dances up and down in front of me
it gestures and mocks at my tears.
My illegal shows me a mirror
to mirror me. I see a reflection
of a thing. An ugly- twisted-
tortured-insect with no will.
i do not close my eyes at night,
for it will sneak up and smother me
with the pillow. I burnt it and
choked on the ashes.