This man lives at the back of my head.
Tucked under my occipital lobe,
he hunches over, too tall for my skull.
His squirrel-teeth curl over a vicious tongue
that cuts into my ears from the inside. He
gropes at my neck and spine
and ears and lips and he makes me say
things I would have never dreamed
and think of things I regret.
His eyes see through my eyes
and bleed into my daydreams
until I can no longer see through the red.
He is a lecher.
Staring and longing, trailing filthy blood
shot eyes into the souls of others
and down their shirts.
Oh, to be unsullied again.
He urges me to wipe that debauched lipstick from
my mouth and repent my sins.
I crave to be rid of him.
I have been deprived of silence,
since he has come here.
Since he has dug his polluted hands
into my gyri and gripped so hard I
feel I may faint.
His long coat, stained with shit
and blood sweeps along the floor
of my skull and keeps me from sleep.
When I finally succumb to darkness,
it is only a matter of time until I hear him
calling me to wake.
And again we go on this
By Emma Compton