Coverlit

I’d rather be lifted

up on the bed of anger 

even when it burns 

even when the truth of it 

is my destruction

my road of 

self-destruction

I’d rather be tumbled 

over the watchful embers 

with their hidden light

waiting for a breath of wind

to burn across 

the blankets in their piles 

five deep in the winter 

with the cat nested on top

when I rise up 

raging with the sun

you don’t need to worry

if I talk about the 

world of darkness and 

my dreams of ichor 

and angels without wings and 

terrible creatures with eyes 

that come out of the dark 

you don’t need to worry

if I am silent 

if I am afraid to speak 

then the knives are going 

in from the outside

and the soft pillow of depression

is being held over my face 

by my own arms 

only then 

should you be troubled 

by my lack of screaming.