One-hundred and Seventy-nine: Silver Screen

i wake up to photographs of my dream scattered in my bed,
monochrome moments splattered into my morning head.

the growl of your memory, all of you, stains my thoughts
so badly that no housewife could get it out. i am caught,

stuck repeating the same tune in the same way that pi
never ends. i stare at them, the way their teeth shine

and a hole gives way in me like dirt. this would not
happen to them. they are seemingly seamless; no blots

in their charms. i think of my gestures reeking of rust and i
wince: the flapping fingers, the stiff curves, the  pinball eyes.

i want to see you just so that i can hit you but only because
i am tired of lashing out at myself.  i had my claws on pause.

i suppose i was scared of scratching you. now i pawn my dreams
on wishes, swallowing kisses as if this, all this, was  a silver screen.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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