Beneath Cookbooks And Jesus

I am an apparition
wearing a blindfold
hiding in the shadows
of your melanized haze,
more fearful of you
than you are of me.
Concealed beneath cookbooks
and a crushed velvet
caricature of Jesus,
entranced by smoke signals
you send from your pipe.

I want to be raptured as much
as I want to be left behind
in your disorganized garden.
Knock down a hive today
and hope the bees are biting.
I am a ghost,
hiding in your blind spot,
draining your bottles of malt liquor,
closing cabinets after you open them,
licking your ear while you sleep.

How do you want to die?

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