For The Guest of Honor

Written after a heartbreak.

Here.  

I baked you a cake, and it is  

made from my insides,  

ribboned and plucked with tenderness,  

frosted with the bile  

in my throat from our last  

phone call.  

Please, watch your step,  

the ceiling is coming apart  

as it decided it was never even  

actually there.  

I pick up the pieces but only  

turn around to find more.  

Don't mind the clock, it's stuck  

in a different timeline  

and when I blink time lapses  

around my eyes as  

burnt film in a projector,  

it is a flipbook eulogy in a  

ghost's hands.  

By the way, the sinkhole in  

the floor asks questions  

when it gets hungry, like  

"why did you come here, if you  

always knew you were going  

to leave?"  

And that's rude to say to  

someone who's just visiting.  

But don't give it any scraps or  

it will never stop.  

I hope you like your room,  

I made it up special just for you.  

All the prayers I sent to God  

about you are scrawled  

along all the walls, so you  

have something to read  

should you find it difficult to  

remember where you are.  

Or where I am, contorted

and silent  

under the floorboards,  

I know you like to keep your  

secrets underfoot.  

And lastly,  

run,  

don't walk when you leave,  

the house likes to keep  

souvenirs.

Author's Note

I dislike the pacing in this. After reading I feel there is more to be constructed.