cut glass
warm whiskey
and shards of my throat
scratched cd’s
looping song lyrics
and numb background noise
get used to the soft sounds
grating
get used to the pitch
ringing
when the rest of the world
   is silent
shush
hisss
please
don't wish
beds become harder
floors become softer
but it’s really all the same
my eyes are swollen
puffy, half open
all the time
all the same
windows to the soul
fogged up from too many people
rubbing and running
their hands all over
what’s not theirs to touch
and they don’t even realize
contact
brushing
absentmindedly touching
not just breaking
leaves glass
shards in my throat