I knew the park was not a place to play –
its statues leered at me, the grass was dry
and scratched grazed knees. It made me cry
afraid its gates would only lead one way

and when I left, it would be evil home
that I went back to, where tears would be sweet
instead of salt. Carpet beneath my feet
would squelch like mud, or dissipate like foam.

I hung about outside for what seemed years.
Then shrugged, slipped in. The statues seem quite tame
as demons go; I’ve learned to play their game
so well, I am the creature of their fears

scratches their flesh and mocks them to their face.
Once you accept it, hell’s a charming place

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About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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2 Responses to

  1. elisem says:

    God, Roz. You are getting me where I live. Lived. Past tense, thank all the gods at once.

  2. arkady says:

    This one struck a chord with me.

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