There’s always something cooking, but nothing in the pot
January 22, 2008
She is falling off a cliff
Right into her bed
The bed that suffocated
Not too long ago
Right into her own pool
Of hideous memory
Of self-degradation and loathe
Of hate, and of sorrow
Of juvenile stupidity
And mellow-dramatic hypocracy
She’s slipping back
To a familiar home
A place she thought she’d never have to endure again.
