smoke and rain

ten fingers, all pointing back at me
lit up, like the ends of cigarettes
burning me
i use five of them to write,
turning myself inside out,
using the other five to hold down
the paper as it writhes about,
the words shout at the top of their lungs
all kinds of trivial things, masking
the truth that sinks to the bottom
of my heart,
returning to me, rattling down my ribs,
ladder rungs
my eyes smoke, and my brain the milky fog
haunting the heads of ponds and lakes
making dogs whimper and run home,
climbing under coffee tables
to escape the rain

written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: ten

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