The Time I Got Reincarnated As

1. A Fly On The Wall

“I threw up three times yesterday.

I don’t think I’m phased by it

Maybe I am, who knows?

This is something I’ve grown used to,

taking narcotics like an alcoholic

would for a two sips of life’s bitterness.

You probably wouldn’t know.

This isn’t something you can relate to.

How could you anyway?

Nevermind. It’s trivial, I’m trivial.”

The seasons are changing outside,

well, perhaps in other places.

The sun is still punishing you and me—us, for

all of our hidden deeds sowed by family

and sinking ships that

serve salt water warm and a slap to the face.

The tide will remind you of those memories—

the mucky secrets

you were told to keep stored

in the attic with an old friend

you slept with every night.

For heaven’s sake,

don’t you know being heard is useless?

You are seeking attention from others.

Be grateful for these four walls

and forget the turmoil in your gastric walls.

Your grandmother has passed away yesterday, now be thankful

and give your flesh, body, as an offering.

Your end goal is to rot away in a sea of misfortunes

drowning any sane voices around you.

Nevermind. It doesn’t matter anymore.

You can no longer peek into one of life’s smallest molecules.

You’ll go to sleep soon enough,

But I will repeat the process of these four walls

because I am no longer phased by it.

You might be, who knows?

God should give the hardest battles to his

weakest soldiers more often.

2. Amusement Park

She was secretly glad,

the bickering

and distraction,

twisting in her

gut was as an abomination,

but to master the edge

of survival

you must cut the dragon

head and

bathe in its blood

all myths seem silly once

you apply logic

to them— follow

the word of God

that is. Her coil

hair was a pale brown,

skin taut across her

face and those eyes

remained ancient.

She’d dig her claws into damp soil each time her feet touched the ground—

tormented words of wisdom waiting behind her, even with no voice.

It was ten past

noon, a bottle of

aspirin, for headache and

arthritis, two stacks of

obituaries, and grease-

soaked meals that

would stop their heart

before sixty.

But a Trespasser

will snack on nuts

to the graveyard,

writing history about

poets just to cope with

the life of her dead

grandmother.

Whom she didn’t care

for, but her family did.

Maybe you can end

up on an editorial

if you hang yourself

upside down.

Young men will jump—

if they had the guts—

while mothers condemn

their daughters.

The theme is free will

versus the middle-aged woman

in a dark sleeveless dress

eating a pizza. maybe she had

done it as well.

The apocalypse smells

like strawberries,

her cheeks are colored

the same.

We spend the last month of summer trying not to breathe loudly

Lowering our eyes while they pathetically grovel at the head of her casket

Humans are creatures

comforted by habit and

a man’s beauty is agony

She talked about tales,

dreams, psychosis,

but an act of love

is the brink of death.

A grinding nightmare

running on clockwork

and dopamine—

she looks pretty still—

maybe she’s pretending.

Wake up, they all say

in unison.

God, I want to throw up.

3. Pride

Our father,

Thou art in heaven,

Why do knees bleed upon tiles?

I beseech thee—

How is this thy will be done?

In desolation, are we cattle

to be cast aside,

compelled to drink from

the decrees of forebears

who we conform to,

with basalt stones lumping

beneath our chins and

putrid flesh falling from

our faltered bodies?

Now thou command

I wear veils upon my face

to dwell in the Earth’s frail air.

Is it not enough that

I have witnessed

coughs, sweats,

felt pangs of hunger—

Lord, are you hungry?

Why dost thou chastise

the neighbor I cherish?

Transgressions that I be,

why dost Thou punish me

to be a captive of my own

flesh and dwelling?

My spirit is vexed

for merciful and forgiving

is no longer written.

I indulge in the

fleeting pleasures of this world

weary I be when

days become nights

and nights become days

then you forsake my spirit.

Are you weary of

friend, foe, and—

answer me, Lord.

4. Gethsemane

Alice, you are a

self-annihilating drunk,

holding onto agony,

suffering and a slender stature

that tapes elegantly to a cork

sitting tightly at the edge.

There is a mad man in here

His clothes torn—cheeks sunk in—

and a top hat titled down to his face.

Your heels click uncoordinated,

slouching against a wall

was an attempt to stop the

gnawing at your stomach.

“Let’s go—you and I, to a place where—,”

Broken promises spew

out a mad man’s mouth and

the heaven gates flood open.

Your feet gets caught on an end

while the ground shifts and

your ankle twists sharply.

The bittersweet wine

dance passionately

like a ship thrashing

through angry waves.

Don’t be proud of yourself,

of your sunshine and hailstones

and blasted hurricanes.

In the corner of your eye,

the mad man

offers his arm—smirk, lingering—

a mockery of nature’s kindness,

but I don’t like the way your arms frail.

No one will ever know why a

cup of tea grows cold so quickly.

Alice, your metaphors are boring,

like the bottom of a glass waiting

to be poured while you struggle

and surrender under each exhale.

“Your heavenly father has—won’t— forgive you.”

The mad man’s teeth grow visible

as the mother cat eats her babies.

This isn’t her first and it won’t be her last.

You cry at something so grotesque,

yet wonder if the same

hunger lurks within you,

“Let’s go— you and I,”

Alice, your fingers are slipping

from the bottle’s neck.

The dark liquid now pools

in cracks and crevices of this

old Earth’s surface.

Body falling forward,

knees scraping hard against

the rough surface,

you gasp, a breath knocked

from your chest,

hands scraping the rough surface.

The impact sends a dull thud

bursting through your legs

as you and I hit bottom rock.