I will fill my bed with books
a rolling sea of ink and cotton
and hide beneath it all until the pressure is enough
I don't have words to puncture what's inside of me
and exorcise this swelling ache
so I will drown myself in language, pick clean the bones of what is left
then finally sprawl across my paper sheets
if we are done
i am like wood, i think
in the sense that i've been splintered
fractures in me opened where you used to be
i try to fix it, lord knows i have pressed stump to stump
and winced as your absence snaked beneath my fingernails:
slivers of longing too thin to catch out
so they'll stay here and fester
do you think these are pieces of the self i should be, the whole self,
once you've glued me back together?
they haunt me with little pains
the kind you can forget for a while
before you put pressure on the wrong spot and suddenly
it's all you have
The way you move reminds me of a cat, tired or hungry and
certainly bigger than the streetlights would have me believe.
I have heard that strays can be domesticated--
if you are not too obvious--
but I'm afraid you might mistake my face for plastic
and insist on someone else's late-night scraps.
I believe I may take up smoking.
I hear it brings about a change of state,
and I may like to be the kind of person
who can breathe nicotine
instead of an answer.
I've tried my hand at picking locks,
without great success.
I think this is because of the way
I am not sharp,
the fingers of my thoughts too rounded by
inconsistency and indecision.
This could be helped with the use of a lighter,
the spark of the cigarette smoldering away until
I am all in points
and in ash.