Beautiful Black Flowers

A piece I did recently and put it to spoken word video. Unfortunately we have mold in our house. My voice has been strange lately. My smoke alarm needs a new battery. It chirps... I've had friends say it annoys the heck out of them. I don't even notice it anymore. I couldn't pay my water for a month. This is a heavy piece. But it helped. Thanks.

Every house on my street is neat  
And green and trim and linear like  
Something out of a Tim Burton or  
John Hughes film.  
I imagine the grass in my yard,  
Which is dry and yellow and overgrown,  
To be opening its million tiny mouths,  
Thirsty. Water, please. Help. Please.  
I am female. This morning I am ripe,  
I smell of blood and longing and  
Womanly things. I burn and melt  
In adoration. Surely everything I  
Touch on my destination within  
This little quiet house must be  
Scorched. There must be a million  
Tiny black marks of my strange  
Consciousness everywhere.  
My mother's ashes lie beneath my  
Brother's bathroom sink. Today I  
Ache to sift my hands through them. 
Mommy. I have questions.  
Do you have answers.  
I feel like a mother doting on  
Children who secretly despise her  
And can't wait to leave the house.  
My heart races in my chest. I hear  
A thousand times a day,  
Help me. Mommy. Help. Me.  
Last night I dreamed I had a  
Thousand sons. They were somehow  
All immigrants, taking a boat to  
America, to begin a new life. I stood  
On the pier, waving, I wanted to  
Speak but my voice wouldn't emerge.
Don't forget me, I cried out in my  
Head, don't forget me, because  
I loved you. Their heads were already
Turned away, something new and  
Exciting awaited them. Now 
Beautiful black flowers of mold  
Blossom on the walls. There is  
Always a taste in my mouth,  
Something that lingers. I wonder  
If little things have taken root inside  
My brain, and slowly, softly fester.  
I smell of things right and not quite  
Right. Perfume from yesterday, and  
That strange metallic scent of  
Woman. It jars and snags the air.  
It's a fecund smell, it's rich in something  
Fertile and lush and full.  
But it's stale, its purpose is finished.  
Every month something  
Leaves my body that could have  
Been human. For some reason  
Things are glitched. There are  
Skips and bumps in nature. Nothing  
Human will ever come from me  
Again.  
I will begin to move now. It is  
Automatic, autonomic, it churns  
And clanks into gear without  
Thought or much programming.  
I think I can hear the grass today.  
It's so thirsty. Please, it screams,  
And all the voices from a million  
Tiny mouths are cracked and  
Parched.  
A million tiny answering mouths inside me  
Are opening like horrible flowers,  
And trying to find their voice.  
I'm so thirsty, they cry.  
Please help. Answers.  
Answers.