In the search for perfecting sleep,
a wakeful heart is necessary.
Once again, I am a broken twig
drowning in saline wind —
fiery water my only friend.
I have always been like this since forever:
My flesh uncooked, my language unhappy.
People assemble somewhere
to establish the singularity of their law,
while mine is a vampiric dream of nude self-love.
You can never tell
whether I am sad or satisfied.
To everyone, I am sane objectivity.
To the mirror, tears become my fortress.
Vinyl darkness captures most of me
and two diaries ate my nineteen-year-old blood.
I like it like this. I like it alone.
I like being reawoken
to a banshee's screeching in the next chamber
and the bathroom tiles singing my song.
Thursday, February 21, 2013, 2:39 – 8:09 PM