Burned in all the right places.
No help, no hands;
I console you to the
"tune" of my depression.
Silence on your end.
A buzz held down
on sheets of static.

"We've had this
conversation before",
you say.
Nothing has changed
between then and now?
Burned? Burned?
I opened all my books when
you asked, I *******
showed you all my hands.
I can't even bluff.
You know who can?

It makes it hard to sleep.
Your archives are locked
and the key is on a string
and dancing in front of me.
Taunting. Semi-humiliating.
Mocking.

Between doors.
Between "lives",
towards death.
Between beds,
between homes.
Between smiles,
but never tears.
"Between jobs."
Between doses of
caffeine.
Between waking and
sleeping.

If you're still lost, well,
you know where to find me.