our bed has the prettiest sheets,
they're versace medusa.
the color of night,
and i cannot look
at them without thinking
of your sleepy eyes and the
chrysanthemums on your lips
when you exhale.
1.
i am ill
insides curled and burnt to ash
as i exhale crushed onyx into
trembling palms
2.
nights are difficult
and i'm not entirely sure
if i will
keep soul and body together
3.
hope is a tenous thing
a fragile, unsustainable thing
it's all i have
and i do hope it's all i need
peace is fifteen cracked stones, skipping
across the crevices of my chest and
bouncing off of my dry bones; i
don't want to watch the galaxy fall apart, and,
i don't like watching myself break against the
floor.
you are a busted, half flickering light bulb.
your wires are crossed, your glass is dusty
with neglect, and your switch is on the
verge of falling off,
stop making me hesitate.
A s p h y x i a (as·phyx·i·a)
/æsˈfɪksiə/ [as-fik-see-uh];
(1)
the act of drowning someone in their own winter,
their heart and lungs filling with snow and paper
cranes, making wishes on collapsed, dead planets.