By Oshi
You have done it again.
One hour in every two
you create me–
A sort of perpetual slumber ritual.
Change your pillow and posture,
Don’t I terrify?
Yes, yes boy it is I.
Do you deny
the numb, burning zombie
transmuted from your arm?—
overnight, slowly,
discreetly, very painfully;
when your pillow and head
squash my being.
Restricting the blood.
Your stubborn comfort
insists,
on staying put
over crushed arteries and veins.
Needles and pins pierce through pillow
as my skin makes room.
It’s the second hour,
and like the cat, I have nine lives to live.
This is number two.
“Resurrect us!”
My vessels scream and scream
To your night dream.
Push me please,
so that my knuckles kiss the carpet.
The pain will cease
as the red tsunami baptises
shoulder to finger,
phantom to flesh.
Needles and pins
beware, beware.
Out of the ash carpet I rise,
born again, no surprise.
“A miracle!” You’ll shout
As my blood knocks you out.
