Talia Baker-Curry

You preside underneath my fingernails,
or deep inside my rib cage,
hidden by humor and self deprecation,

eating your way through my chest
like the first vulture I saw when I was 11 that instilled that same fear of being eaten alive
by something you can’t control.

In medieval times, if you strap a bowl filled with rats to someone’s abdomen,
and proceed to put hot coals on the bottom,
the rats will bury themselves into the chest of the ‘victim’ to escape the heat
And I envy them

I envy them for being able to escape their problems so easily.

as inane as it sounds,

I wish I could bury myself somehow

whether it be in faux love or faux friends or simply just
bury myself.

Six feet under doesn’t sound too uncomfortable ¬†at least I wouldn’t have to worry about


the dozens of improbable situations that rush through my mind

racing each other for the spotlight.

Who will win?

Who will cause me to cave in?

Who will make me search for the nearest exit?

see this, this is just a two-player game.

Me against them but in the end I won’t win,

I won’t even come close.

because people like me,

who are just washed out souls in a colorful vibrant world,

we aren’t suppose to win,

all we can do is bleach ourselves out of existence

and hope to be forgotten.