beckon me.
i'll come.

i'll bite your pillow (happily)
face down
end up

if you wish

i'll mark the headboard my stone
and you may do

if you wish

a service to the tension in your loins
anywhere
upon my grave

if you please

i'll restrain my lips from yours
bed frame shaken
butterflies stirred
and thereafter lie with your shadow

if you desire

to turn over and cue my egress
i'll go (happily)
crying out optimism that

if you wish

you'll beckon again
and i'll come

I am a lost traveler
on their expedition (of this I am sure)

sailing atop a flat ocean atop
a turtle's back (of this they are sure)

but
I know the world is a sphere
afloat in a sea of nothing

maybe
or maybe not

atop a turtle's back (of this I'm not sure)

Silent I drift
my tongue impaled by
reason and fear and defeat
wishing
to fall off the flat earth (that I very well know is round)

I keep picking them. I feel. Them cover my scalp.
Ruining. My hair.
I keep picking. I pick.
I pick. I pick.
I pick.
I pi.
ck.

It's my skill. My pastime. My excuse.
I pick. And when I pick it all off.
I scratch
at the underlying skin
until my fingernails shit blood.
I spend days,
years,
minutes trying to fix my hair so people
won't think.

I'm ugly or dumb or dumb and ugly
or like them,
My scabs won't(can't) heal
when I pick.
and scratch.