Sitting on the edge of the bed,
Un-made twisted sheets,
Muttering to myself,
picking at the scabs under my lily-white purified skin
wondering when the door will come crashing in.
Knowing I’ve only a few moments,
Time with my crucifix, moments with my notepad
Before the time slips beneath the door and invites the others in.
****** knuckles, parched lips,
The compounded inhaled taste of her hips,
Dripping through the catheter,
tiny atoms of my being wrestling for space.
I’ve finished this course of treatment,
The next week will bring more pills, extra tubing
Lack of hope in plain sight

If I breathe deeply,
if my words carry too much weight
or if I inadvertently slip and show the seams of my darkest thoughts,
you are there, brandishing that whipping post, ready to teach a lesson.
I can’t escape the voyeuristic fetishes that you’ve made habit,
The peeking from behind closed curtains,
The chipped nail polish, as you chew your fingernails to the quick,
The endless litany of excuses and paltry misdemeanors tossed aside
with yesterdays *******.
You see me much more clear than I see myself and I wonder:
If I inhaled sharply would you seep into my bloodstream?