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
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 8:27 PM UTC
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
