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Yes, the room was spinning.

Like a blind pagan circling

A false altar,

It kept spinning.

All it proved justice to

Were the shadows stuck on my walls.

The spinning power gave them

A force to latch onto my

Lecherous pores you see.

Little by little, my pores inhale

Them blue shadows.

There’s barely any room left for air.

Come down, what is she coming down with?

They can’t tell…they almost never can.

Convulsing in a killer’s lap – my days

I can’t trace the path they vanish into.

Like snow settled for too long,

The underside of my nails

Houses the debris of demons –

Everyone’s demons.

Indeed, I scratched them off their minds;

Now with that debris I can’t scratch mine off.

There’s no room under my nails.

They can never tell.