The Old Hag
Skin like an elephant’s knee. Thighs puddle when I sit on your heart. My hair is a dried mop never rinsed. If the weight on your chest doesn’t wake you, the split ends falling into your mouth, reaching down your throat, will. Your eyes open. They scream. But you’re frozen and thinking this is forever, though this is nothing new. We’ve looked into each other back then and even before that. Still, you think this old hag on your chest, nails dug into your cheeks, is forever when all I came to do is show you how wrong you are.