10:30 11:47 12:56 1:12 2:38 3:23 a.m.

the screen is a burning light
That seeps through my eyes
with a flaming sensation

this little blue screen
has several hues
and each one will be the death of me

maybe one day i'll realize the source of my sadness is not my mind
it is just the little bird and the Kodak camera constantly calling my name

think my brain is sun-bleached
i haven't been outside in days
it's just sweat
just sweat
swimming in rivulets
down what's left
of my eyebrows
down what i haven't
pulled out yet

when i hold your hand
it feels like violets
like tasting strawberries
but i only feel it in my mind
it's only there projected on tile floors
on the cash register

if i was out of my head
i wouldn't have to just pretend
i could kiss you
but you're the only good thing
living in there.

tiny boxes hang suspended
rows of lemon moonlight
burning just in your honor
the stale air of the bathroom envelopes you

like a moth in a cocoon
you are pale and shivering
reckoning for space within this empty stall
you kick the door, bored, and rattle the lock
trapped in a silk shell of your own making
ready for release

the sound bounces off dusty ceramic tiles
your anxieties echoing against pastels
it feels like walking on egg shells
it feels like waiting to hatch
and there is a sort of elegance
to this game of waiting it out

the chill of the floor seeps in
you sit in a womb of ice
baby blue and cream and cold
and you won’t feel warm again
until class is over
and you slip slowly
out the door
out the hall and
fly.