there’s a wicked thing hiding in my closet. i know because all day i hear it screaming profanities from the inside winning beer pong against itself landing kick flips blasting Curtis Mayfield.
there’s a wicked thing which sometimes slips between my sheets or sometimes underneath my bed, its fingernails sinking into the underbelly of my mattress. i think it eats the feathers which stuff my pillows ripping open the depths of my existence yet not quite there at all.
there’s a wicked thing which has injected itself inside my veins, and now there’s a wicked thing in my bone marrow eating me from the inside out like i am stuffed with feathers, too.
there’s a wicked thing that i can see but not hear, its jaw widening, spilling cartoon character bubble letters: i’m sorry thank you very much i’m fine alright.
it used to say more: i’m your biggest fan it would make my day love love love i’m gonna miss you a lot that’s some poetic stuff you look beautiful i’m really sorry i love you more i just wish i could see you jokes on you, you kissed me saying goodbye is hard.
there’s a wicked thing which i will forever fail to understand. it is buried underneath the soil of the panhandle it is soaked in coffee beans and saltwater and in between the threads of old denim it is in anticipation in one ear piercing in over exposed film in sixteen empty envelopes that will never be sent
it has taken up so much space in my poems, infecting pages. what a wicked thing.
Grace Miskovsky of Marin Academy explains, "In this piece, I attempt to encapsulate the complications of a relationship in my life. This relationship is incredibly complex, so here I try to unpack it."