The door and the doorway
form a cocoon around my
fingers and this metamorphosis
is still lovely because instead
of a butterfly I get bruises.
and white hot knuckles.
and a raspy throat when
afterwards I asked myself where
the air scampered
away to I think it’s hiding
under my bed and in the
piles of clothes that I
left on my floor because
every time I tried to pick them
up
I picked
up
the phone instead.
Don’t talk to me as if I’m
the last string holding the
tag on your bed sheets together
hile telling me that
I’m the last string keeping
you away from a 200 foot fall
while you’re bungee jumping
how do you expect me to
snap you back in place every time
you wander
I am not elastic.
it isn’t me that turns your
words into cobwebs in this breeze
I’ve heard everything you want to say to me
1000 times before
at least
give me a square of time
for my own thoughts
to act as a feather duster
in the attic of my mind.
to clean up your cobwebs
where you nested once,
you lay your eggs inside of me
and there are 2000 tiny animals
ravaging what I was saving for us
what’s left of my mind
I have a bottle cap and
a glass heart that you
copped from DC
you’re still running
and these bottles of vicodin
and oxycodone are chasing you
but you haven’t yet realized
that you’ve already tripped