I spent the morning

pretending

that mile-long comfort did not affect me

with your pale disquiet open femininity

clinging to me, with something in mind besides straightforward

awkward accusations

RingingLikeBellsThatRiseUsWhenWe'veDied

a little hope, a little pride, stored inside

where moths nibble at it dully and grateful for a light that does not kill them

carefully inspected and put to rhythm

on a table of lost inspiration, set to an expiration

of days before, the sour scent

of mornings spent in what should be contentment

but never made it past the education lie

where I once threw myself away and lost my life, without awakening to ringing

telephones or bells or sirens,

I have memories of them trailing after me with lights dancing in ecstacy

and brains that could not comprehend

Hey, a dead man

and here's me trying but failing to scrape this

fully

from my subconscious, nothing needing or breathing, save a last repose

to knock us all down in this end that doesn't expose,

it's just my bitter laugh and rancid breath that could be more if I gave them room to grow