Parasite

The parasite gets under your skin

and sings like an angel,

fusing your neurons,

fooling you into thinking

that blood tastes good,

and is good for you,

makes you think

your dark conscience is pure,

and the black sky is breathing diamonds.

But a parasite is a toxic smudge,

flammable actually.

A huge relentless glare,

a shredded mess,

a mug show,

in your dissolute narrative.

But you let it in,

you allowed the bug to drench

your soul.

You now have the spine of someone else

crawling inside of you.

Turns out

you are as bare as an unscrolled sentence

a locked-up library,

a channel with skewed images that sell hate.

You want this.

to make you feel whole.

Be careful though,

all the slogans and ardent catchwords of

your scorched dialect

are defeat like a scab covering a wound.

Maybe you can’t see it,

and feel compelled to tell your black stories they have become true for you.

But look around,

your ashes are everywhere.

RM March 2020