there is a box of pills under my bed
each one labeled something unpronounceable
and yet
amongst all these bottles
I haven't yet been prescribed reassurance.

but is it
if I add to the weight of the world
that someome built on your shoulders,
the stars whisper sternly
when the language I speak
translates incorrectly
due to a metronome that's been off-beat for centuries,
I beg my creator
for His cruel hands
shaped a pitcher out of a sieve
and i will lay,
spilled.

the demon that sits in my throat
his voice rumbling in my head
and my eyes
his horns are in my chest
twisting with every breath
his tongue whispering in my ears
kisses cold along my neck
clawing deep into my hips
a grip I cannot escape
God help me, I choke past him
"My sweet, he left you on that cold winter's conception."
my skin grows cold and clammy
my eyes weak and heavy
I am not me in this body
for there is a demon who sits in my throat.

I see you in every woman I meet.
In the hair of one, the hands of another
I was praying for you last nights
and
I want you to be your best selfs
but those are words that are foreign in your mouth.
you're still here, nested in my crows feet
behind the double pane, snickering just past my cheekbones
I heard
you
her


oh.

lagoons deep with their waters a murky verdigris
a thousand sunsets had set and sailed
the trees and their emeralds glistening from storms past
a head amongst flowers, resting in their pastel bunches, peering up at the whisps of clouds smearing the sky
how long can I stay in this dream, how long before it disappears like everything once before it.