charlotte

it is a woman of murderous weapon
by which language commits suicide.
full of spongy yellow funeral cake,
mourning blankets and mattresses--
not quite comfortable, but something else altogether.

without use, we become frail;
withering on stems: little flakes of our past selves
crunching underfoot,
grinding into almost-nothing

but a squishy smooch. 


(this poem was inspired by "The Yellow Wallpaper." Click here to read my post about it.)