One child screams, the other holds her tongue. This one pushes, the other squeezes, and they both break me. There I go, trying to restore order. It is better to leave things in a state of chaos. Let me not see things clearly. This responsibility, this curse. Outside of Juliet’s womb, the children are no less parasitical. Their fangs sink deep into me. The Dirty House made little horrors out of them.
This depression is too rough, too tight around the neck. I think of death, but want only life. Love electric, and the midnight sky that stretches to eternity. The mysteries of the moaning sorrows on the hem of the White Lady’s dress. A cracker and some apple juice, on the way to a midnight show. But I have children now. What I want, does not matter.
The dictator stands proud, still. He is behind my eyes, looking at the world with me. The mind does not wander, when one is sick. It stays firmly in place. The dictator must know that I do not give up, only say I do. I am quiet, before I am loud. I am still, before I pounce.