Taryn Owens
An Account of Dead Children
A spider the shade of an apple
crawled, creeped, crept
into Eve’s awaiting mouth.
Sinful nature became sin
and seduction became addiction.
In the fatal second,
that innocence was no longer enough.
Little girls are being handed spiders now,
little boys, syringes full of vodka.
Little ones, it will numb your throats the first time
and numb your hearts every time after.
Do you ask yourself,
what is your emptiness,
and why have you so little love?
A sexy surface coats every broken young soul.
One more hit of whatever,
one more sip of the cheapest thing you could find,
but scratch the social cover
and an ever empty hand stretches
to grab for something
other than what they are holding onto,
for some kind of half-feeling life.
Let go of the rope in this moment
and maybe you won’t fall into a web.
A fifty-fifty chance of being spun again,
half a chance blood and smoke
will be drawn once again,
half a chance of the Cheshire cat routine returning,
fake smile in light, tears once behind a screen of dark.
Fifty-fifty chance for as long as you want,
until rock bottom seems so damn close,
until trying is no longer a way of life.
Dissolve trying into real love,
trying is another word we use for failing,
no maybes, just yes or no.
Every temptation known
to every little girl and old man
was known by a Man
who spilled enough blood for you
a thousand times over.
He takes each hit for you,
you get Him wasted every night,
and you would feel Him inside of you
if you weren’t so numb,
Let the rubber bands come off.
Painful withdrawals will come,
as the feeling rushes back
to a place it hasn’t been allowed
in a very long time.
But we were meant to live
with uninterrupted circulation through our souls,
and once that seductive surface is shattered,
He will hold you.
He will hold you.
