My mo-mothe-mother-mother's hideous hallucinations have hidden
here in me, and these daunting monsters are the only possession
of her staying with me.(These monsters decease me like my mother
did to believe

My sensitive skin assumes husky, hairy fingers firmly declaring
an elusive touch on my already injured shoulders.
The eerily, firmly comforting touches bring back the quiet (yet
ever echoing) voices of a blurry pre-presec-presence in my
blurry adolescence.

Will these blurry, enraged reflections help me enough to encourage
a sigh in a glossy (but ever-glooming) portrait and face its enchanted
(so much so unenchanted) ways.)

I wish this was a sing-song or a fairytale, but this is a dawning nightmare
of the glass hours of my molten sentiments.