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Being alone in my dying bath listening to “my future” is the most peace I’ve experienced in months.
If only I had more gin.
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My knees come out of water like mountain ranges, with the quiet ravine of Mars in-between.
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I’ve been patiently teaching myself that I am weak and good only for clowning.
You made me feel like a little prince that day.
And now I am unbelieving and crysome for craving your presence.
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My skin in spotted like white giraffe with charcoal and ink.
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I’ll know it’s time to sleep when I ran out of paper.
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I’ve worshiped multiple gods, of youth, witchcraft, flora, gold, applause, humility, silence, limits, adventure, love, anger, knowledge…
but I remained faithful to only one, god of poetry and wine.
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I am not noise. I am not bright. I am not a drum.
Play me like a cello, with fingers and bows.
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