I need this Melancholia,
I need this
hard breath
of cold air,
freedom of
roaming hands
and
stomping feet.

I need
blankets too tight
clothing
too loose,
to help
dissolve,
discard,
and decide
who
what
I am.

There are,
pine trees
in my blood,
and
cactus thorns
on my skin.

I am bent,
and freezing.
My paint is chipping,
and I am starting
to c r a c k.
Rusty and rotting,
but not broken.

My pipes tick,
and are slow to start,
but I am still moving.

I need
broken bottles,
empty bottles,
half way through me,
then back out.

I need
cascade into darkness,
inky smears
from too much pen.

I need
high on my own supply
high on my own high,
sinking
walking
breathing.

Things have been so weird lately,
I need the chaos,
the uncertainty,
the madness.

I'm feeling around in the dark,
on my hands and knees,
picking up the pieces.
I'm blind,
but I'm putting myself back together.