The story of the Screaming Lady.
The pockets of her ragged cut offs
lined with ugly orange filters where
the smoked was sucked out.
She expels frequent blasphemes,
aiming malice toward the sky and
to passerbys who pass her by without
a scoff, smile, or slight.
The smell of cigarettes sticks on her
breath like a dog who rolls in freshly
dead animal.
With each grimace and scowl
her face contorts and assumes
a frightening frame. She speaks
only ills and slurs simple phrases,
"All in on the bad one!"
Each blistered finger pointed
in the face of an infant, mesmerized
by the revolting expressions
dancing across her face.
A cradle, a miscarriage,
the outline of a sobbing
woman holding a baby's rattle -
that doesn't make a sound.
She must think it queer, the mistress'
distress, immaterial as the shadow
she spots in old photographs, looming
over fading depictions of parties,
old friends, lime green dresses.
Haunted by scentless apparitions
of love and trauma occupying
the same space, but no one
believes them to be bothered
with ambivalence.
We are, after all,
flawed beings by design.
Be it the bottle or a potent
cocktail made to swallow,
snort then wither and wallow,
you find out down the blurred,
red eyed road you've been
enamored with who and what
you choose to abuse.
It's a curved road,
an uneven road,
a slippery road,
a road that skirts the cliffs you once
feared falling into out of fear
of not knowing how far
the floor is below.
A fear of falling
and falling
and falling
only to realize
you've been
falling
falling
falling
all along.
One moment, headlights.
One moment, weightlessness.
One moment, eyes closed.
You touch the chasm floor and
sing out to all your friends,
"I'm here, there's nothing left to fear..."
