These bobber and blueberry plaid sheets
don’t seem as sleek as they once were.
I don’t think I washed them last week.

A put-together person
really ought to wash their sheets
at least once a month
because wrinkles and stains
don’t just take care of themselves.

Didn’t our mother raise us better?
I ask the neatly put together bed
that silently sleeps beside mine.

Although, I suppose,
the ticking of the clock
is the only answer I’ve got
anymore.

That bed only stares,
always stares.

That bed is done in purples and reds
and I always said it could use
a dash of black or white.
And when it won’t sleep at night,
I flip its radio on
and I keep country going,
even though I can change it
to play anything that I like.

The radio sits on an empty dresser
next to a bare table now,
one that I really should dust.
You’d be surprised how much collects
when no one stores
deodorant and lip gloss there.

Bench.
Book.
Breeze.

Sunlight
       peeking
through
       the
trees.

A long gaze
into my lover's eyes
reveals full moons
and shooting stars
that hypnotize.

These electric stares
shoot searing sparks
that zap and zip
and melt me down
into a work of art.

You say that you love me.
You say that you care.
I thought that the pastures
between us
were gentle and fair.

When I gaze
into your eyes,
I see the truth,
the awful truth
you try to hide.

Love,
your eyes
are cold
and dead inside.

Weave me into what you like, dream-maker.
Fill me with your unavoidable heat death;
smother me in warmth and ashes.
Paint me all your brilliant colors,
all your blues and reds and golds.
Twist me into impossible designs;
mold me into something new.
Make me, dream-maker,
and take me away
from those who don't like
who I am today.

You and I
high in a tree,
happy as
two birds could be,

but the bough breaks
but the bough breaks
but the bough breaks

and so do I.

There are one hundred and twenty six tiles on my ceiling
If you count all the halves.
I know because sleeping is what normal people do in their bedroom
and normal is not my favorite descriptive word.
Why say you're normal when you could be
fabulous,
magnificent,
tenacious,
or incorrigible?
But why would I ask you?
It's obvious you don't know the rules of the game
because why would you say you love me
when you don’t?
Is it because my halves
don’t add up to perfect tiles?
I know I have a few cracks,
some warped edges,
and missing chunks,
But my imperfections tell a story;
I won’t hide behind flat spackle.
Besides,
I always thought my ceiling
could use a few stains.