it’s nights like this when my fingers are sticky and reek of popcorn and my stomach purrs like an antique car that i cease to exist just a quiet little thief tucked away in a prison of white stucco stealing oxygen and racking up an electricity bill with a lopsided pink lamp honey on my face a “beauty treatment” an edible headband sunken into my hair gnats crawling between my eyelashes black dots just as hungry as i am the music of the wind plays outside my window rattling long forgotten memories and stirring up dust of the past there’s a constellation in my hand universes up my arm purple lines swirling together into incoherent shapes semi-deep whispers escaping my lips that are pale and dry and hurt to touch bad pop music crawls through crackly headphones same song, different artist and my sheets animal print, picked from years past and never changed due to either nostalgia or laziness, the world may never know disengage themselves from my bed twine around my ankles sly cats looking for milk and hunger eats at my heart i count the minutes as they spin on by the soft timpani as it thumps eighth notes through my chest
this may or may not be my favorite poem that i've written