spilled burning hot chamomile tea
on my shaking hand
which proves, i suppose
that the ones you love hurt you the most

would like to think that falling sick
is the work of some Trickster God
fashioning shackles out of wool
fistfulls of hair wrapped around a bedpost

was asleep for forty-eight hours
most of them i dreamt
various iterations of
an unattainable light

left by abstract imagery
the words adorning
an album i know
making sense of the nonsensical:

"there was a tiny cactus on my desk. i was angry and i smashed it down. the poor ******* cactus didn't do anything. i kept the needles in my fist all afternoon. i left the pieces of the *** and the dirt on the floor for weeks. until my mom finally picked it up. 1/21"