I take my secrets by night, Miss Claire;
imbibe them when the backs are turned—
and I giggle at their foul play.
The world is asleep to our kind.
These are my secrets, Miss Claire;
two a night, each and every.
What dreams they hold—and what sadness
they bring in sleep, Miss Claire.
They are my secret powers against moonstare.
They are the lies and keys swallowed,
eaten;
they grind their way out of solidity.
They disappear without a trace,
Miss Claire.
They are my babies, my hopes to place.
I elect them individually, and gobble their heads—
so full of tiny, bright-shiny souls—
to fill the holes, the damnéd gaps
of inconsistency; what You, Miss Claire,
leave behind in me.
I spit on your grave, Miss Claire.
Haggard bitch; whore of Unholy Hell:
grace me no more with your vacuous, pressureless gaze.
Leave me, leave me be.
Nature abhors you, Miss Claire.
So do my secrets;
and the bottle is empty.
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