Some nights I play music in
my bedroom full of mirrors
and talk to myself.

I have the same conversation each time.
Like, if I hear all the different versions I might be able to
piece myself together.
But somehow the dialogue is always new.

And every time the cut is in a different place.
Tallying up the score

I'm winning.

I see symmetry in my face,
but not in my values.
I find the parallels on the palms of my hands,
but not my interests.
I see the lines running up my thigh in
                    a
                  neat
                  little
                column
but that's not how life is.

These conversations did help me find out one thing though;
I ******* hate mirrors.

Just like the mornings when you don't want the sun to peek through the curtain just yet. You recede back into the covers wrapped in your lover's limbs.

This is the part where you exhale the imploding universes you have locked away inside you. Inhale her whispers in your neck. Just like the ones your mother shushed you to sleep with, when fever flushed your cheeks. The same shade of red that colors them now when she tells you "You're beautiful"

The only reason I know there is a higher power,
is because I have a thirst to write.
I am my own highest power and I will not be bound
by what I do not understand.
I crave to put the colors I feel in my soul
on paper.
I just can't seem to find the right shade of teal.

She holds cancer between her gnarled knuckles
and smoke between her teeth.
Her tongue slips on week late birthday cards, and the five dollar bill that she generously donated to the local abc store instead.
She says she can't find her own spirit anymore,
so she buys others' instead.
Good intentions,
she always had them.
Standing at the corner of the family gathering,
staring at faces she was supposed to know.
But the wine had taken their names off her tongue.
Good intentions,
gift cards for everyone.

I am the writer who has forgotten how to spell
I am the singer who lost her voice.
You have given me lifetimes of motivation, but taken all my means.
You stifling ******* muse.

You roam my mind constantly, and freely.
For some reason I let you.
You always were special to me.
I never told you, I thought you knew.
Like how a fish takes to water and the tree roots to the ground.
You knew. Didn't you?
But the kids we were are long dead
and my sentimental soul can't handle your whispers.
And I'd tell you to leave except...
I'm afraid you would.

97 minutes
wasn't the only thing separating us
I never told you about my fear of falling
off the bed
out of a plane
or in love
somewhere in the distance I lost that fear
and my track of time
because before I saw how close you really were
I lost you