Even the dirt here is sterile
Dry
No matter how much you sin,
This building is tainted with the white-hot holy of
Institution

I don't wash my hair for 7 days

If I hold my breath long enough
I can imagine my plastic bed is a
Brown couch
It smells sour

In this grungy living room sit
12 disciples in a circle
Their ***** fingernails clink
And their hazy breath makes me
Dizzy with delight

Some nights I can't quite float above these
crisp white sheets

I tell my friends I've been writing more and
They believe me
     Why wouldn't they?

Winter is coming

The rain reminds me I am still alive
It laps at my feet

Shallow.