the sun released a photon
into my lap.
stretch. yawn. shiver.
to curl back into a
liquid-smooth pearl diver
or engage with the peril
of my own biology.
the question of the day
isn't rhetorical. it's a ripening, decaying
flesh eating virus
that itches like a plague.

i can hear the bomb ticking.
it’s a nursery rhyme that I want
to put me to sleep forever. to stare,
patiently, as it preys (prays)
on (over) the weak and forgiving;
i want to it to detonate.

change brings the most frightening
transitions of my life.
change means that one day,
I might learn to love myself.

I'll save that for another lifetime.

fingertips against
a glass pane, smothered.
paint drips from the ceiling,
peeling back its exoskeleton.
it's bare, rooted in rotting wood.
let me in.
i could do it forever.
one ounce of indiscretion is tortuous,
but it is my remedy. guitar strings are strummed
in the closet and the drums
were not ready for their awakening.

it's a christening,
a birth in reverse.
fragmented sun rays refract onto
the shards of glass created by
grandma's mason jars.
sweetened fruit is neutered
and calmly packaged for spaying.
the curtains dance with the breeze
till they're tired. i am amused.
my feet gasp for air only to have its
wish smoldered by the nighttime.
i can hear the dew hydrating outside.
is it time for sleep?

our holy coronation
has fallen into the inkwell.
it splatters. it is primal.
it stains as it enters
to transcribe lines of
sapphic poetry. no one
is a lover alone. what is shelter
without a body receiving the
thermodynamic tendencies of
an atom dance?
the veins are etched in our lungs.
how unstable the collisions.
how sonic. how real
!

between the crevices of my lips,
there is orange soda no longer carbonated, hibernating
until i wipe it off with my sleeve.
sometimes i like myself, when the caffeine dissipates
and my anxiety subsides.
are you loving yourself? are you taking care of yourself?
i didn't shave in the right places,
i didn't comb my hair this morning.
i've grown fond of my ***** roots or at
least that's what i've been told.

i touched myself this evening. i caressed every fold
and counted the lightning bolts to help me sleep.
masculinity is torturing. the bed springs attach to
my spine, embracing my face. there are no second chances
in heaven; in purgatory we have no one. cuts under my eyelid
tell me i'm ageing, but this is what happens
at the edge of history.

i can no longer pretend or hide. the newports grapple
my esophagus and i have been pinned.
why this and not that?
tomorrow is our spring awakening, and whether i'm up or down
or left or right - my sense of direction is permanently broken.
tonight.
i know one thing is certain. there is no love, no harmony.
i touch myself.
for a chance at true intimacy.