In My Room

i must have grown behind the head with the toad stools.
entering on me, his flashlight gleam burned
my eyes, as it curled off the wet floor.
he only sees my smile and hears my half-hearted dialogue
on the flip-side of my one-way mirrored coin.

in my room, i rolled over heads to what i am.
spokes were there to hold his tires -- which i lacked.
riding, he soared over cross nails, while i trod
there flat.  gravity had an affinity to me.
i stuck effortlessly, when the mud kissed my soles.

in my room -- where i died in life,
he lived in his:  dumb-struck to ignorance,
young again, exploding wiser, and better in restlessness
eternally.

he was so right, he never did guess i cut him
clean every chance i got and felt alright
in the filth aftermath.  he never did
think i could have been unfaithful to him
every glance that i got and reveled rebeled the sweet
lament.  

in my room, i rolled over heads
to what i am. he believed the part of me
i hoped would die.  in my room -- away from his --
i could be what it took for him to see.