incohate

had to turn it off the peeping
into bits of stories embedded
planted in my head blooming
 red flowers under gunfire.

it's not so much the stories they wash off with hot water and soap. it's the sounds that won't stop, even late at night.high pitched nicotine stains. rabid teeth. choleric rock fisted monuments. the moon slices my abdomen, wailing ants escape. sarin gas sings soliloquies from a  vape. i keephearng his face, the one i won't listen to, disintegrating like a flock of geese come hunting season.