I see cemeteries in the patterns of
the cushions on the couch
There are no floral embroideries
only death lilies in distant funeral homes
that I believe may be planted
in my nose.
Sometimes I feel I am invisible,
Other times I am a chameleon
on this couch
I crush into my own rubble.
They question my stability
Trying all natural remedies
they wont turn off the lights
that sting my wounds
incapable of clearing these red eyes
they are afraid of my pain.
I lay the fetal position
dreaming of head stones and dirt-
I am clawing at the top of a coffin
covered in mud in the rain.