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Description
I think of you as I investigate the blemished imperfections
of my face with unsteady hands.

My pillow feels hard so I settle for sitting upright amongst
the lumps of my bed. The moon looks tender and friendly through glass
as the lump in my throat builds to a gnawing throb.
I am determined to prevent the noxious fluid from escaping my tear ducts,
which makes the pulsation behind my mouth even more pronounced.

(I‘ll never be as perfect as the drugs that discolor your throat.)

The dark shadows of bedroom furniture are a comfort because
it’s easier to imagine you next to me. I remember when
you would speak portions of lexis and I would laugh crooked melodies in reply.
What digs deepest is the fact that no one, no matter their so-called helpful intentions,
can force happiness. You can’t just sketch a grin on a diner napkin
and pray that it emerges on the face of a passing stranger.

-

I wonder why I’m always so
tired.

Red digits frame the third hour of morning as I collapse through
a void of insomniac fatigue. Eventually black dwindles to grey; my eyelids
finally become sewn shut with an intangible force of exhaustion. Immediately after,
velvet murmurs caress me in nightmares until my limbs fall numbly
to the nape of your neck.

The dreams are the only chance I’ll ever get
to be yours. Since in reality, I’m the only one who hasn’t pointed out your
condensed exterior, and I know for a factual opinion you enjoy being hurt.

(Because the ladies fall for young men with wounds, right?)

A week and seven days ago
I bought a box of matches at the little store down the street,
with intent to scorch each and every fingertip of my left hand. Monday after next,
I’ll do it again, as soon as the injured skin cells become peeling white.

Description
I think of you as I investigate the blemished imperfections
of my face with unsteady hands.

My pillow feels hard so I settle for sitting upright amongst
the lumps of my bed. The moon looks tender and friendly through glass
as the lump in my throat builds to a gnawing throb.
I am determined to prevent the noxious fluid from escaping my tear ducts,
which makes the pulsation behind my mouth even more pronounced.

(I‘ll never be as perfect as the drugs that discolor your throat.)

The dark shadows of bedroom furniture are a comfort because
it’s easier to imagine you next to me. I remember when
you would speak portions of lexis and I would laugh crooked melodies in reply.
What digs deepest is the fact that no one, no matter their so-called helpful intentions,
can force happiness. You can’t just sketch a grin on a diner napkin
and pray that it emerges on the face of a passing stranger.

-

I wonder why I’m always so
tired.

Red digits frame the third hour of morning as I collapse through
a void of insomniac fatigue. Eventually black dwindles to grey; my eyelids
finally become sewn shut with an intangible force of exhaustion. Immediately after,
velvet murmurs caress me in nightmares until my limbs fall numbly
to the nape of your neck.

The dreams are the only chance I’ll ever get
to be yours. Since in reality, I’m the only one who hasn’t pointed out your
condensed exterior, and I know for a factual opinion you enjoy being hurt.

(Because the ladies fall for young men with wounds, right?)

A week and seven days ago
I bought a box of matches at the little store down the street,
with intent to scorch each and every fingertip of my left hand. Monday after next,
I’ll do it again, as soon as the injured skin cells become peeling white.