My own


“…and whose voice do you hear saying those things?” This is what my therapist would ask.

“No one’s. My own.”

Flashing neon lights, I hang above my head. Like a strip joint and I’m exposed. Or a quivering finger, nails chewed to the quick. I unveil the witch. So throw down your gavel. Snicker and sneer. I’m already sucking on shame like a leech. The blame I reap. A name? My own.

This was my response to Day 7: Fingers, Prose Poem, Assonance.

Photo Credit: You by James Theophane is license under CC BY 2.0


3 thoughts on “My own

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s