I am a leaf, shed, homeless,
drifting in through a hole in the carpentry --
a skeleton among skeleton relatives,
dusting the shuffle-worn surface
of our mother's planked-out chest.

i wonder if our skin cells are divided into more categories than we think
maybe some are a country and some are skyscrapers and wet city roads glistening with rain and sweat and rat ****
and in our skin's second layer are murals and graffiti tags and ice statues made up of chemical compounds and crystallizations waiting to be exposed

or maybe they're divided between cells you did and did not touch and if they are i hope the ones you ruined decide to secede and fall down the shower drain so i can finally be a new person
again.

My therapist has a
white noise machine
Outside her
office door.

It sounds like a
box fan in the
Summer and a
coffee *** in the
Morning and a
distant vacuum cleaner
All at once.

And you can hear
voices over it but
You can't hear
what they're saying.

I have a
white noise machine
Somewhere in the
back of my head.

It sounds like
radio static
The loose noise
they put in the
Backing tracks of
songs and it never
Shuts off.

And I can hear my
thoughts over it but
I can't hear
what they're saying.