The deep blue me

There is a confession,
buried in my mind
disguised as a serpent
in a vine,
poisoning ceremoniously.
This “confession” used to be
a garden of roses,
this bed of blooming scarlets,
now an overgrown carpet
of thorns.

My confession was buried
in a coffin, alive
this immortal thing
constantly scratching
its way out
I hear it clawing
when I sleep
when I walk
when I eat
when I talk
and someone asks
“What’s the matter?”
My spoken words get
buried in its laughter.
What I want to
and what I say
are two different things
I garble something like
“I am okay”
over disparate yearnings.

It is only in solitude this confession
dances on my tongue
it prefers no audience and in certain
confined rooms this monster hung
around my neck, whispering.
I eat the words which
flourish in my blood and
nibble at my soul
stuck between the devil and
the deep blue me.