I have sockets.
Caves that hold dark tired eyes.
To slide you a glance
holds the same definition
as to offer exhausted sighs.
I've stuccoed
up angry holes
punched in cheap apartment walls.
Given up water
during dry midnight thirsting,
dissuaded by the stretching hall.
Calloused teeth
grind gristle flesh;
four hours stale with counter thaw.
Soap-opera mute,
flashing shadows on carpet,
pupated flies continue crawl.
A cavern
slightly singed
by the fires of lost hope.
As I break my hands
bone by bone in boredom,
I wonder how I'll tie the rope.
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S.P. 
