I can't believe I haven't posted this poem yet. I wrote it a while ago after I started hallucinating from the effects of Vicodin. I kept seeing this man leaning over me with a knife, and I'd scream and throw myself away. I actually ended up injuring myself- hrm. So, obviously I stopped taking the beloved drug for a reason (and by "beloved," I mean "accursed" and "wretched" and "god-awful").
To the man who surely would have killed me if he had just been real
Well, you’ve visited me almost five times now
and every time you’ve failed to impale me with your enormous knife
You have that jagged blade that catches the moonlight even when there is no moon
and dark clothing that I suppose is a mix between an undertaker and a ninja
though the silly bandana over your mouth and nose is more Western rogue-ish
and how the devil do I know you’re smiling when your lips are covered, anyway?
We’ve lost the passion of our early days, you and I, and fallen into a routine.
You lunge, I scream and propel myself away, and then you simply disappear
the cat looks at me irritably and you aren’t there to take the blame
which really makes you like every other man I’ve known
After all this time, I still haven’t seen your face, but I imagine you must be handsome
because, after all, why shouldn’t you be?
I can’t remember your eyes; maybe you wear sunglasses, which is just ridiculous
and might account for why your aim is always so far off
Oh, my mysterious visitor with your phallus-like choice of weapon
I am beginning to wonder if you aren’t the creation of a mind that hates the romantic
but only when it is sensible enough to be awake
and, if you please, if you couldn’t one day try to become some sort of erotic fantasy
I think that that would be just fine
Amanda Martin 2009
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