The house sits quietly in the late evening
on its last limbs, the summer draws its curtains.
The ceramics follow the call of the wind
swaying against the smashing cupboards
crashing against the pale floor.
My hands are stained with blood
and memories, I’m not sure what is more dangerous.
Winter passes by, perches on the sill aching to swallow
this stale love we keep dipping in honey.
I wake up howling for mercy, kissing every glass
in the sink, hoping you will find my lips in lieu of love.
Your shadow leaves the bed unmade, unfolding up all the years
you didn't think of me as a sin. They are knocking, knocking
but I cant seem to stop brushing today with my head down
Holding the house as it begins to lurch into a swamp,
she is knocking into a skull, handing me slips of hypnotherapists
who cant seem to diagnose me right.
I curl into a sofa as the aching house
fumbles, begs for a love that never humbled
daydreamed in the night, fleshed out into a nightmare with the dawn.
All bones c r a c k, the roof hollowing up to the rainbow sky
maybe what we need today is to look for a lover
that doesn't stop tasting like love.
No comments:
Post a Comment