So, you can see me in two? The hairline
cracks are widening that the bats are
flying in. They’re roosting on the edge of
broken promises and dreams, of

dry martinis and restless nights
mangled from the things you've said. Buzzing
on my head as a fly, loud as the 1812th overture
in July. Isn't it plenteous that I've chipped off

more than is sticking to me? That the ground
is covered in my flakes and dust? You can't sweep
the crust off the floor. My weeping puddles are rust
on your door. The stain is on your hands.  No soap

washes it out. No vacation or cream or ***
on the sand lands the plane, that we've circled
over and again. My splinters are the quills
I write with. The shards I poke you to see

if you are awake. And if you'll catch me
as I break. All the years you've slept like a baby
as I've wept. Now I’m drier than my martini, and
dreams are smaller than a string bikini.