Some things come back.
Looking for you,
your death screams in your forehead and crackles.

Mother told you
that feeling all that evil inside is a symptom.
You know of what.
It is a green and blue dead person
you carry.
A negative of the picture
your six-year-old mind took
of his face next to yours,
his body on yours.
It is him you carry within.

You are afraid of the blackness.
But some nights you wish that he
would come alive again in a dream.
You’d receive him with a knife on your night table
for your use
or his.