by Timothy Frasier:
Electric sleep with stuttering images in black and white
Clutching at a reality made of mist and fragile cobwebs
The constant smell of ozone with the taste of copper
Hiding forever in dread with fragmented memory
I peer at the strangers in my home with fear and anger
They look at me—through me, like I do not exist
I go to my bedroom to cry, but it’s no longer mine
Photographs of unknown people adorn the walls
Why oh why are these people in my house
Please leave me alone so that I may remember
I peer out the window and see only static
My hair stands from the humming of heavy current
In the dark of night, things are much better
At times I can remember, but for a short while
I watch them sleep—peaceful with hearts pumping
Pumping—pumping—pounding—louder and louder
Why am I here while my family’s long gone?
Are they in Heaven while I languish here unloved?
Have I committed some unforgivable crime?
Am I left behind forever in the midst of the living?
I lie on the boy’s bed and listen to his beating heart
His warmth is like a furnace stoked to melting
Cautiously I lay in his space—Oh, I feel alive again
The smell of cut grass drifts through the open window
The day brings me hope and a breakfast of eggs
I hide in the boy—he’s confused by my presence
As the years pass by and this body grows old
The boy who once was—has faded from memory
I lie on my death bed—feels like I’ve been here before
Shadows whirl as I see a boy by the window
I walk to him then glance back and see my corpse in bed
Together at the window—we stare into the static filled night
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