The Poison Stays Inside Your Bones

A poem about everything, and nothing.

My home was black as any bible,
if I remember rightly;
I was an anglerfish,
I ate my prey whole and I lived without the sun.
For a time, if memory serves,
I was moss to a barefoot boy,
a gypsy moth, beating at the window.
I was Napoleon, before Josephine came along,
I was a satin-clad gun moll
blowing smoke in good guys’ faces,
and the orchid of your eye, as I recall.
I was a thief who stole your pain,
I was a child you never named;
the poison, that stays inside your bones.
I was a stop on your way home,
if I remember rightly,
I was a bottle of pretty pills,
as I recall.