the wind slips her under the awnings
and she yawns; shudder, and the doors shut.

she slept through the downy mornings of spring; her resting
in summer's thorny evenings
leaves her with a bed of brittle buddleias
and moonglades in the puddles.

under dirt
in a box
no voice
     teaching about nutrition
no breath
     exhaling cigarette smoke
a brain
     shrunken
          no more knows
shut down
     irreversibly
          dismantled
in silence
in a box
under dirt

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

I wish I smoked.
Fancy a cigarette to inhale something.
Anything.
To suffocate the voice I grew
that left you speechless.
Silent.
The lingering of your synchronized heartbeat on mine;
a canvas layered in pain painted oils becomes
hard to clean.

You left me in limbo.

                                           Waiting.
                                                Waiting.­
                                                     Waiting.

Until.
You're sorry.
Your touch.

And like lightening,
                            
                        ­           Forgiveness.

I used to be unique.
Kool-Aid hair dye and all.
Boys wrote my name on bathrooms stalls.
I swore at teachers.
I drank ***** behind the bleachers.
I puked at football games on cheerleaders.
I had black eyes and cigarette burns and soccer thighs.
I used to wear my shirt undone.
I used to have fun.

Now I own a 6-room house,
a 4-door car,
a water-dispensing fridge,
bell jars.
Also, religion,
caffeine addiction,
magazine subscriptions,
diazepam prescriptions,
goldfish,
900 pairs of shoes,
PVA glue,
a self-inflicted curfew,
sexually transmitted virtue,
and many, many cats.

All this between walls painted in 6 muted shades of deja-vu
from whence I commence my pin-cushion voodoo.

I sleep in pajamas.
I set an alarm clock and my snooze allowance never exceeds 4 minutes.
I spend my mornings yawning
through thick oatmeal,
******* in the dark.

I work in a bank
in an office
on a phone,
making friends with dead ends.

I come home to wash, rinse, and repeat,
undress in the dark,
and brush away the question marks
of hair in the bathtub.

you are the lit tip
of one cigarette pressed
against another
you are the reason
I burn