When I woke up Sunday morning, the knife was sitting up
like a pogo stick. Apparently it slept beside me all night
like a goddamn teddy bear, a rumor silently screaming
out of its mouth hole. At least its teeth didn't bite
into my chest, at least not this time. But what happens
next time, after all the hair is ripped off and it's nothing
but blades, no longer covered by pretty charades?
Drippy red patches induce sleep; everyone is a colander,
except for the hairless teddy bear with a tumor
or is that strange bulge just another nasty rumor
sticking out of my panties, all the way up.
What does it mean when it sharpens itself
under my pillow, writes in red caps on the case, "I WILL HIT YOU!"
Where is all this sticky goop coming from? Who am I after all?
A pie hole or a pinhole or a black hole dying
between my thighs or just another whoopee cushion
with fangs getting ready to stab themselves inside?
I try to sit up, I fall back down, I'm under the dark red
vault no one can account for; no teller, no seer,
no more soft sheets, nothing but another bloody teddy
growling in my holes, dripping off the walls.