Where's My Ark? Poem by Pey DeLaune

Run.
Run and do not ever stop.
Run.
Halt.
You are far enough.
They won't find you.
The panting never stops, the stomach vile spews continually as you attempt to grasp the sweaty hands of your breath.

Lock yourself in.
Your sins can't find you in this grout filled room, where the Waste lives. Where the cockroaches live.
Where scum like you run to wash the blood off your hands.
You wait frantically for the water to turn away from its frigid face.
It never does, you
wash
over
and
over
hoping the freezing cold water could forgive these sins you have run so far away from.

The heater feels good after that water assaulted you, and the towel cleans it off.
You grab that hand finally and breathe
a little.
A little seems a lot.

~

I
and fed.
I
haven't felt the growl of my stomach since
I
was 17.
I
have known this silver spoon for a while now.
I
am so tired,
I
feel so nasty,
I
need a shower.

The water was hot, just like this barrel to my head. The trigger feels smooth and liberating on my index.