I can only shiver
when I come home
to the cold
in the same clothes I’ve worn
for the past week
fingers fumbling when I can’t
find a spark
to light my cigarette
when I realize
I’ve gone again
to the moon and back
yet the clouds
still haven’t changed.
All my ghosts say:
lie down,
lie down, sing your song,
but don’t cry out
for the lips of another.
I say:
I’ll put my mouth where the money is,
will drink the dreams from any
will only lie down
if there’s a dirt bag there
to spread his filth
as he spreads my legs.
Because I need to feel weightless,
a bird with hollow bones.

But now, in the gloom, I realize
all my marrow
really is gone,
and I am more than weightless
more than hollow
I can more than fly.

Help me
I can’t help but float away.

Published July 9, 2020
FEED Literary Magazine
Issue 1.13 – https://feedlitmag.com/

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