Daddy forgot to close the window
so the bluebirds got in.
Mommy tried to hang herself
from the third story window.
I remember it had been snowing
so when the noose broke,
she couldn’t throw herself
out on the concrete.
She misses spring because
December drives her mad.
My best friend Bear hates winter too.
It scares me because
I don’t want to be like him.
I hold my breath until my lips turn blue
And dream of a snow-covered slumber.
Daddy would throw birdseed on me;
the bluebirds would tickle.
I wish I could imagine
Mommy and Daddy in love again.
But the noose didn’t break this time.
December got Mommy and
Daddy made love to bluebirds.
I dream in thoughts of formaldehyde.
They float lifelessly in a jar
upon a shelf next to
a meth addict’s mind
and the broken heart of a child.
Does this make my thoughts
dead upon arrival or
are they slowly killing themselves
as they embalm their memories with poison?
That poison was once a friend
that tickled its way down my throat,
past my smoker’s lungs
and withered heart,
straight into my stomach where even
its acidic self
couldn’t take down the poison.
First you fear it,
then you absorb it like a drug
until it kills you slowly,
embalming you.
Buried alive;
you just lack dirt and a shovel.
Instead you have open veins
and a jar of formaldehyde
dripping down your throat.
You think of love;
it’s much like embalming.
First you fear it,
then you absorb it like a drug.
Even the acids in your stomach
can’t destroy it.
Melanie Whithaus is currently studying creative writing. Many of her pieces can be found at blog at melwhithaus.wordpress.com. She’s been published in Umbrella Factory Magazine, Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, and The Rusty Nail Literary Magazine. Her writing is known for its raw and straight-forward voice, and her “no-bars-held” style.