what is this
wasp's nest doing in
my throat?
christ, i know i should
be
sleeping, but watching
minutes grow into hours on
this clock lets me know:
my heart is still beating.
all of the dasies
have eyes,
staring sadly at
layers of
brown and
green and
grey
folding me shut while i sleep.
questions left unanswered are
silent revelation;
caving foundations and
toppling the walls.
the wasps have stripped away
even
the closest comforts of
daily life in the last
yearandahalf_
couldn't this just all be
foreign?
i could dream easy,
the wasps would
make peace with the dasies,
carry their wilted leaves on
wings and backs in hopes to
build a softer nest;
one that wouldn't tear at lymph nodes and
vocal chords leaving me
hoarse in the mornings.

but, oh.
fantasies
are so
sweet.

while the minutes
turn me
over
and
over
to
(at last, please)
sleep, the only
sound i hear
is
glass
shattering on the
kitchen floor and
the low destructive hum
of the wasps
stealing the last of my
breath.

it starts as an
embroidery stitch
in the bottom of these
ribs;
sewing the hours and
days together into a
dull, aching
flower.
lonliness creeps
with spiders hidden in the
bedsheets-
(it all disappeared
so
abruptly)
i sleep with fifteen pounds
of ashes
compiling my memories into a
dustpan
while i am dreaming
to the sound of
erasers clapping.
there are pieces of me
stuck in the fibers of the carpet
choking on chalkdust
singing to the rain in
broken keys
about the endless search for
contentment.
you are falling around me
everywhere
saturating the cotton draping my
pale skeleton. you
roll down my cheeks,
fall from my lashes,
tracing electric streaks over my pores
(thirsty for you
after
six years of warmth).

they say:
you return with
greener eyes
or as some
far
off
star
but i feel you
everywhere.
you return
with dusty
wings and an addiction to
bright light,
electrifying the streets
with a flood and
bursting from the
clouds,
you sing to the spiders and the
concrete
pushing a new leaf
out the stem of an
orchid. and oh lovely, you
bloom
in white.