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