Totalitarianism – A Poem



mirror miscommunication

I tie my shoes
my knuckles scarred
fingers shaking

“It’s totalitarianism.”

totalitarian muse
washed up on the banks
flood waters recede

“Angel, angel, it will be okay.”

“Bring it to me.
I want to see its eyes.”


“Bring it to me.”

in a green dress with a summer trim
a bloody mary grin

my coat feels heavy
photograph of the afterlife
in one pocket
a lighter in the other

I put it on
open the door
there is a light rain
steam over the asphalt swirls
around a mother
two destitute children
a single umbrella

“No, never mind. Don’t. Never mind
I don’t want it. Don’t.”

you shut the door
my eyes are dry
I rub them


I kiss your forehead
stroke your hair
you kiss my lips

“Please. Just don’t.”

passion portioned
from a barrel filled with August flowers
peach colored dreams
blend into the sunlight of a new day


in a red tank top
and running shorts
run your fingers up my back

“Let’s go angel. Let’s go to a café.
Grab some coffee.”

my head is like a lawnmower
words are making me sick
a desperate need for water
your shadow is painted on the wall
I draw you close to me

“I’m injured. Can you feel it?”

“I can.”

“Injured, cracked. And I’m only able
to watch my self seep out
through those cracks.
It is totalitarianism. It is.
Isn’t it?”

“Yes. It is, but
let’s go now. Get dressed angel.
Let’s go.”


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