A wicked wind rages at your window
while you sit in the dim staring
with your zombie eyes fixed on
faces and names taped to the wall.

Coffee stains your teeth,
but ***** stains your soul.
The infections in your ears
make it hard for you to hear, but it’s not
like anyone was going to try to talk to you.

Your chapped lips long for a kiss
from the boy whose name you
doodled with a pen over and over
until the letters stopped making sense.

Pile trash on your bed so the
sheets won’t touch your skin,
and the whispers won’t keep you
awake all night unless you let them.