cute aids

Untitled # 5
I write letters
to shadows and sheets
i miss leaving
ex-children deposits
in between.

I leave my thumb
pressed over the peephole
and knock hard and slow,
like the bed frame against the wall
the last time you exorcised my demons
in deep winters
where we caved in
and let the stalagmites accumulate
from the drooling tongues
sliding across the glass table top.

my infected finger
drips every time i come close
to the corner i fucked up on
when i let a few words slip
i knew i couldnt pay back.
and it took everything
to get the spear out of my rib.

God damnit.
Its the season
where im gifted with believing
that underneath all the wrapping paper
and a few tags
there's a box
i cant get to
beneath the floor boards
buried deep
like the ancestors of ancient tribes
resurfacing in community pools
and you're cursed in the jacuzzi
with conversations of std treatments
and how much god doesn't believe in us.

If he did i wouldn't be here.
Listening to the clock
whisper to my sleepy eyelids
another minute
shes not there.

Another minute i stayed snowed in
and the am
becomes pm.
and back again.





--
After word
This is the season for spoiled kids
to stay in bed.
I walk around all day
with a heavy head
and the rocks you keep throwing
land well
nested in my glass eye
you used to look through
and wonder
where the rabbit hole turned out at.

you forget how long the shutter stays open
and it develops an unhealthy light
and you vomit
so you dont have to stomach the state
of things
the way you left them
on the porch
with a fist entering a wall
and you have a window
god never opened
when i slammed the door shut
and walked
heavy.
with rocks
raining.