My tongue is severed
Cut up.
Taking down all the pictures of the people we used to be;
Pictures of people I’m not even sure I remember.
Skin prickling.
Tear it off.
I tried to pick the clothes from my
floor
But I picked up the phone for about the thousandth time.
Voicemail.
You’re letting me waste your time
And by the way you’re living,
I’m sure you don’t have but
About a pint left.
And I’m knocking on all the doors
And no one is answering or at least
The ones that do frighten me.
I can’t ask them for their sugar,
Or even find my voice
I think I lost it somewhere between
Does he still love me and
Goodnight.
Too bad the ones that always appear welcoming
Have sharp claws rather than
Soft underbellies.
Sometimes when I’m cold they offer
Places to nestle inside of them
But instead of comfort
They maim me with their
Dry-ice smirks.
It’s always the ones who
Think they know what it’s like to be told
I’d rather sleep than talk to you.