with every little hair that rises slowly,
and creeps across the back of my neck, the pavement
seems to stretch for miles longer than it should be.
this corkboard ceiling tacks up photographs of
all the memories that hide our certian secrets. i have learned to
hide mine in the corner of the window well, hoping that
the smoke that rises from tainted lips will never find
what i am keeping because the walls speak too loudly.
they whisper back and forth, drowning their whispers in the
sound of running water. they swim so shallow in my head,
kicking at the insides of my skull, shouting safekeepings
to the tiles, spilling my consciousness down the drain.
in the early hours of this morning, my fever mocks the snow
and scratches hard at the insides of my skin.
all i want is for the heat to leave my fingers, shut my eyes,
and carry me down so you can swallow me whole
inside your arms. the low hum of the street outside the
window softly stifles beauty, and sends me into oblivion.