woke this morning on the wrong side of bed
or was it somebody else's bed altogether
the birds were screaming and I felt like shrivelling
why is it that mornings either bring dread or fresh terror
I'm angry at more things yet again
I'm not sure I mean to slam these doors or glare
do I feel like stringing words or writing music
why is it that human speech sets me on edge
the heart is in actuality quite small
(the size of my clenched fist before I drive it into the wall)
we set up mirrors around the perimeters of its insides
to make it look larger, encompassing and more roomy
did you say symmetry or did you say cemetery
not sure if I wasn't listening, or you weren't clear
isn't speech meant to be understood

went to sleep on the wrong side of bed
or was it somebody else's bed altogether
you were humming and I was daydreaming, listening
the only thing in my head "what am I doing"
do you feel like sexting or do you feel like sleeping
I like it better when you call me "pretty" and not "beautiful"
I fail to comprehend strings of words flying out your lips
but when you touch me I understand
we hold our false large hearts in beaten chests
(the redness of skin tearing as I claw at flesh)
we play around with foolish words
and when dawn breaks we dress sore clawed backs
fading in, fading out
trying our hardest just to recall how to look clean
our sweetness lies only in the night
and steadily, bitterness comes every morning