Bonemeal

It's just a skull-shaped rock
and a pile of white sticks
keeping me tethered straight laced,
head to my feet when I
look back
in the cradle of the mosaic painting
eyes follow me when I turn down this
haunted hallway

Bats on bats,
Like at least a fucking thousand of 'em.
On my skin like flies on the apples in the kitchen.
My skin is rotting off.

Black gets darker still,
and the story stays vague.
And I learn and grow
from the same damn things
same as always.