there are mountains on my wrists
for every corrosive spillage of greed.
there are mountains on my thighs
for every bad angled reflective surface.
there are mountains on my stomach
for every unreturned meal.
there are mountains on my scalp
for every entity reaffirming worthlessness.
It takes earthquakes to bring mountains down— (my chest wheezes in tectonic plates)
I wake to lingering warnings:
Suffocated between insomnia and sleeping pills
I must be dreaming about you.
It pisses me off,
your lyrical subconscious presence far too elevated for your pathetic reality.
It pours, flooding words escaping my cracked hands
and I wonder if I can recreate you long enough to edit you into
In nightmares, too, you tease:
waking in cold sweat and
embarrassed regret: egotistical
too good to waste.
I can’t pretend
to masquerade roles
I have no script for.
Standing in the ballroom: centered and focused
will not get me to light the chandelier.
A soft spoken promise lies dormant in my right hand
so tightly clutched
I wonder if it lives still.
I’ll flex open these muscles on the day of
when stars detach from their strings–
I’ll take on paper wings,
sprouting from its cave, this promise
producing a gust so fearful
tables turn upside down.
Then: centered and focused
I’ll gaze upward.
The chandelier drops elegantly.