I’m having trouble thinking of things lately
I’m wrapped up in too many layers of clothing at least I’m warm in here
though I lack ventilation; I draw myself on the glass in condensation wisps
a remnant of or what should have been a form unseen, a strip or morsel
a chalice of our decadent lies poured out slowly, curbside, in front of
gawking usurped neighborhood watchounds
run your fingers through your hair, feel them staring at you and your
pores open, feel your insecurities in drips congealed on your scalp,
bite at your freckled lip you’re cracked and they are muttering to each other
behind their fences and wrought iron bedposts, about you, they are twisting
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