"You can't see my apartment, yet."
He tells me because he thinks his apartment is
too ***** for my eyes.
He doesn't know my mind is a dump that gets hauled
out to sea every day to try and make some space
for something, anything, other than trash.

He keeps saying he's going to want space but then ends
up in my apartment and holding my hair
and breathing me in like I'm
worth something
to him.

to me
he is that space
above the ocean where I can
breathe a pocket full of air that isn't poison
so of course I come knocking on his door with a smile.

Before he comes over I'm sure to clean out my head
because if his apartment is too messy for my eyes
-my eyes clouded with my thoughts, my
thoughts building up like city fumes
the city fumes bursting through the
atmosphere of my head like burning trash-
if his apartment is too messy for my eyes
then I can't ever let him
know my own mess.

I wash myself off,
a mop head.
Used and ***** but with a lot accomplished.
Sometimes I'd like to just
         -pop!-
***** it off.
My head, I mean.
Get a fresh one.
(Get some-) Don't even go there.

If cleanliness is next to godliness then the devil
must be a janitor that doesn't
switch the water out
between
rooms and just spreads the dirt around.
Floors and mops get ***** that way.

Is god water then?
Or maybe the cleaners.
Destroying dirt despite the devil's
intentions.
Cleaning souls like toilets.
I'd like to think that god is a woman
who's cleaned toilets for
twenty years.
That's perspective.
That he's worn out his jeans
replacing rusting pipes.
Maybe god is the feeling of being off your feet
after a long day.

I don't know if I believe in god.
But I know I've met a mop head
or two.
All just a little *****.
Not one brand new.

Do not write for me.
You- so perfect but humble.
a calico dress.
Your words patterning the hems,
sleeves, trying to match an ugly pair of shoes.

Do not write for me!
I am a waning moon,
against the
nuclear reactions of your words in
the sun. Shifting,
casually,
planets. Playing god to the

Egyptians, who also did not
write for me.
But did for you,
who lit their temples,
shone through their heiroglyphics.
Who adorned their pyramids in
crimson robes of sunset.
And I, but a stone in a pyramid
Plain, and beige at best.
I still light up and write this for you.

I've imagined a life with him
I can see it.
He, he has a dog but
I knew he would before he told me.

He's one of those people that
pulls other people in
like the color
white
because everything
looks great next to white

We would talk about work
together because he
is one of those
people who
works
ninety hours
a week and so am I.

But if he is white, I am
off white there's
just something
a little
off
about me
like a dog that growls
unexpectedly when all you want to do is pet it.

And off white is probably
the only color that
looks weird
off
next to white and
he has a dog who probably doesn't growl.
anyways.

It sits, poisonous
Dripping sorrow over the windowsill
I drove to the Skyway,
Dropped a heart over the edge.
Watched it splash under
It took a couple seconds to hit.

This apartment, I can't find any matches.
Beethoven's wife,
It's legend that she would play a scale,
All except the last note- and Beethoven-
awake asleep in between dreams
not waking to her kisses would
get up to finish it.
She probably knew everything about him.
I bet she wept when he went deaf.
I like to think he wrote her a sonata, or two.

It's raining outside.
Right behind the poison on my windowsill.
A candle would make this place better

Where are the matches?
Beethoven's wife would never have betrayed him.
Do re mi fa so la ti-

Waking up.
-oh you
ow!
I felt okay
for maybe a second or two
(felt like a week or two. maybe it was?)
then I remembered how to breathe
and all of you came rushing back into me
pinpricks in my soul
all the dead muscle that you are well-
not dead sorry!
just asleep. Well it came back to life bringing
screaming nerves and I just
miss
shhhh! I don't know I just
lo-
SHHHH.
Shush. v-
SHHH
e.
Shut up.
You're gone.
Go back to sleep, just
go to sleep.