Self

paint by numbers and my writers block
are having sex again. i can't do anything
creative on my own anymore. we are
scattered snapshots, disorganized,
not in order, and i'm my own "out of order"
sign on a bathroom stall door in a public
washroom. my clavicles won't let go of my ankles.
i sleep in diagonals and wake up with
"i-slept-all-wrong" and "i-have-a-stiffness-
in-my-neck-and-a-crick-in-my-back."

i had intercourse with purity,
i used dirt as laundry detergent,
i slept with insomnia as my pillow,
and this morning i ate my hygiene
in the shower. tan lines were typewritten
on my cheeks when i wore your ugly
fingers. you are the coffee stain of
i-wish-i-didnt-do-that on my teeth.
you are the wine stain of i-don't-remember-
what-i-did-last-night-but-i-know-it-was-stupid
without the i-don't-remember part and minus
the wine. let's go fishing and reel in some
of that makeup that covers up upper left
hand placements and downright fuckups.

my notebook is a room and all the letters
are all the people inside the breathing space.
there are so many letters, but still, the only
word i see is lonely. i tell you the unborn
baby in my stomach is dying. your heart
beats under three miles of skin. three miles of
gathering electric thoughts and forming
acoustic sentences. three miles of my
eagerness. three miles of my throat-won't-
let-go-of-this-longing-feeling-the-same-
way-planet-earth-won't-let-go-of-my-wrists.
three minutes of silence that appears to be
oceans deep. the silence in between the
words is as clear as the water in between
the honest eyes and the broomstick hands
that sweep away the stars. you say that
you'll have the eulogy typed up by friday.

there's a shard of glass in my cup coaster
and it hurts me in ways my calculator can't
calculate. i eat raisins and dried printer ink
and apply saltwater to dried lips. i throw
eye drops into the ocean and free the
tapeworm of its boredom and starvation.
the coffee is cold. i leave the room.