When it comes, your smile is more of a statement
than a question mark. I crack myself dry and
lose the chapstick. I later find it on the floor.
I threw it there in the quick strobe of psychosis.
But where are your words now? You see, since Gregor Samsa
threw himself off a balcony thinking he could fly
after dropping too much LSD, I lost part of my larynx.
I’ve been chain smoking since the cops called.
Don’t blame a bug. No one else knows how to love a roach.
Where is your mirror? Since we all hate confessions
I try not to read Plath, or open my mouth.
I can’t touch myself without breaking a bone because
I’m all glass and deception and Tennessee Williams
was once my sugar daddy, but he drove off and I am cold.
My oven is open. I only speak as it heats up.
What happened to your eyes? My eyes are lost
roaming the streets. They’re cloaked in red wool and
I feel them scratching. I’d get them back but
I have no money left for a taxi let alone
a search party. Something feels too Little Red here.
I am also the wolf. I am also my own shoveled snow.
Are you doing better? I hate wolves as much as mania
and sharp teeth. Send a prayer only if you believe
thoughts count. But sometimes I can’t reach up to ten.
Mail me a letter soaked in your lover’s perfume
so I can smell like purpose while I pretend
I’m not wretched. I’d write back
if I could avoid a paper cut,
but last time I had an
out of body experience
and I can’t moderate
for the life of me.