Rosemary’s Baby

by Scott Jordan Frink

I’m Rosemary’s Baby

lullabies of the end of times.

Insanity sways me

back and forth

in this cradle of delusion.

A polluted womb,

mind consumed

with honest lies—

the ones that untie sanity,

welcomed with open arms

to the dark clouds of self-harm.

Image credit: Fardin Khan on Unsplash

On this playground turned graveyard,

thoughts like merry-go-rounds—

but when they come around,

I can’t be found,

because I’m playing

hopscotch with the devil,

drawing burnt-down houses

with sidewalk chalk.

Playing make-believe,

while holding hands

with the same clawed hands

that rocked my bassinet—

the ones that depraved me,

enraged me,

caged me to a youth

where innocence is no longer presumed.

But here I resume,

in a life where I’m consumed,

my name on that tomb—

a life in reverse,

deprived by the perverse,

ashes evenly dispersed

on holy ground,

buried in sin.

This is where I begin,

in shattered salvation,

without contemplation

of the hope I need

and the dreams I bleed.

***

Scott Jordan Frink

Scott Jordan Frink writes from the raw edge of lived experience, where survival often comes before craft. His poetry is instinctive, emotional, and unpolished—meant to be felt more than analyzed. He is the founder of The Broken Spine Journal, a publication dedicated to amplifying unheard voices. His debut chapbook, Inwont Paint You Flowers, is out now through Bottlecap Press.