When the only life you know Is broken. Picture perfect Manicured hedges On the outside. Nude madwoman Whittled to bone hooks Running rampant Inside. Driven to spew bile On the page. Driven by An internal, Infernal Fire. Slathered with coconut oil. Performing Latin rituals With my own bodily fluids To ancient pagan Gods. To little or no effect. I silently scream Outward Online To an indifferent world. Take my meds Three times a day, Keeps the men In white coats away. Stay inside Sober. Celibate. Like a good woman should. So I have heard. The scarlet letter is A. From coke whore To literary lesbian To eccentric recluse. I traded in frolics For respectability. Received The dregs Of coffee grounds And cat shit. So indoors. Alone. Craft dreams Implausible Of immortality. Guardian ghosts, Illusory, We ride at dawn Into the abyss.
Bio: Andrea Lambert is a queer writer, artist and filmmaker with Schizoaffective Disorder. She lives in Nevada with her four cats. Site: andreaklambert.com