I Live Inside Your Skull
Wednesday Prose Poem: the rooms have us
I live inside your skull.
The walls are peppered with parchment faded photographs, worn and yellowed at the edges. Hanging by their last breath to the damp moldy walls.
The walls are curved. In places the curves are elegantly long, in some there are crevices. Hiding awful imaginary rats of memories. Which snipe at your feet the moment you get too comfortable.
I live inside your skull.
I know what you’re going to say, before you say it. I know what you’re thinking.
I know which lies you resort to most frequently, and those that are complicit in your fabricated excuses.
I live inside your skull.
I am in your head like the membrane of a ghost who once pined for you. Like the fog that seeps through your sweater and chills your bones.
I know the patterns your veins make. I know when your arteries bleed, and your eyes tear. I know it all.
I know which of your cells smell of blood and which ones smell of betrayal.
I live inside your skull.
Paroma Sen 2021
In response to J.D. Harms’ prompt:
