My father’s demons lap the back of my eyes
Drinking in the dreary sights
Breathing out fire
They live right here
Most mornings I wake with
A stab wound in my chest
Grave grey gargoyles
Gaggling in the garden I call my body
I am sorry, I think my heart is bleeding
Dozens of days I spend looking
For threads to stitch me up
The shock of the metal cutting
My flesh is fresh
The edge of the knife is dull
I lost my edge too
A single slow thought you can cull out
Rattling in the depths of my skull
I forget why I was finding the thread
Stitching a shift out of my shroud
Swaddled in the cloth of dread
I am sorry, I think my heart is bleeding
Watching warped videos
On television sets in a store
Like a vulture
Each screen slightly different
I never learnt to see myself
I put on a show for an invisible audience
They laugh, they cry
My blood runs dry
I am sorry, I think my heart is bleeding
