The wind, it comes now, from a fan above my head
It draws me out like thread through so many needles
And sews me back from my pieces
Pieces torn apart by your
Hungry mouth

So many small spells spelt out with
milk white goosebump skin and
Red as blue flashes pulled out from
Every single touch, every contact
Of fingertips and palms

Theres an eclipse dilating on the moon
Expanding discs, breathing outward
Black and spreading in your eyes
Flown across my neck
And up your chest

You fold me up, and wing me out
But my legs are too heavy to walk
And what is there, what is here
Is a ghost
Of seconds ago.

A space I'll always feel as full when you have left
and I'm alone.

Outside approval is ten times more common, twenty less important, and thirty more strived for
The ****** of everyone talk and talk and talk and say little to nothing.
Ideas after idea after thought is thought inescapable, different, a singular miracle
How unique am I, the harlot giggles, but inwardly, outwardly he is coolly solemn,
How clever for that, he says
And ****** by the ones who shift the glass
And turn off the fluorescence of compassion, he is unchanged, untouched, unbothered.

It’s the careless who care about the less of caring-ness,
And lost are the ones with the maps etched on their palms by benevolence,
And cold are the ones who say what they must to avoid what they should, and what they say is silence.
And what the ones who know cry for is forgiveness,
For the misstep, for the crushing blows they intend to land
On the faces of those who think that the brilliant room will make them glow,

Those sick  q-tip figured devices
Who ravage the lighting, the upward slipping, causeless miracles,
Those ‘flightless’ birds, with no song, who soar for themselves out of caring eyes,
And past. Applause to the harlequin-assumed,
Who prance on in beautiful spectacle, laughed at; gluttonous and thick,
Forgive me.

The dressing in the window is shadowed by the right corner door
Calling to the left sun he screams for more of less and for the floor to be lit
Like the bottom of ballerinas faces when they're sprayed by the stagelights.
He cries a last note to the minor scale blues number, switching to bass
And closing the gap between what he really knew and what he couldn’t face, he floats home
and up a stair,
Pulling down the sheet over the two pairs of killing drones, the lovers eyes
And regardless of the broken mirrors and the lucks flailing failing dream vain, he will not try
To quit.