I saw you lying prostrate in your bed of bones and crumbs
the white sheets were stretched to reveal your garbage heap,
your nest a collage of street trash
you hoard yarn and plastic dolls with missing eyes
combing your hair with toothpicks and cleaning your teeth with vinegar

You blew the layers of dust that settled on your window sill
And your prickly legs laid tangled against your cool walls that had been painted over too many times
The paint would chip off into peachy piles
The original wall, an ancient artifact, poking through for air

You smash the little bodies of spiders under your thumb
smearing their entrails against the glass
studying the life you’d just taken against the rays of the sun
And I watch as you tear off your fingernails, their jagged edges scratching down my back

I try to fall asleep to your hums and shallow breathing
drowning in your little commune for the lost and forgotten
the relics of the city
Your little kingdom of pots and pans, of skeletons and guts
and red-rimmed eyes

I wrap my arms around your sticky skin, it’s greenish hue playing tricks under the light of the moon
I’m merely swimming off your coast, marooned on your island
watching you from afar, among your treasures

Hesitation burns so lightly
Heavily holding
This grandeous hypocrisy

Who shall pay for dinner?

Him or her ?

At day you can’t see them, because they are nowhere to be found.
But when the light is out, they head to the empty playground.
For while you are surrounded by walls, in your bed dreaming.
This is the place where their childish hearts are pretending to be beating.

The seeker is covering their eyes while counting loudly to ten.
Here they get the chance to play their favorite games once again.
Fighting carelessly over plastic toys and digging in the damp sand.
It looks like a lively place to be, instead of yet another wasteland.

They are hiding in the trees, giggling. Who can climb all the way to the top?
Tiny hands are holding on to each other, spinning around until they almost throw up.
Going down the rusty red slide: some are going fast, others nice and slow.
And if they hear you coming, they’ll be gone like the first flake of snow.

Far away, you might hear a familiar sound of squeaking swings.
Laughter is echoing through the night, carried into the town by bird wings.
They are trying to evade being captured, while running in a green ocean of clover.
But the sun is lurking in the dawn;
soon their fun and games will be over.