my breath is sleeping
thick and orange
making its way under the street light
rain drops competing for first place
my absence of thought echoing
into the stillborn night
your large hands like hooks
grip my sandpaper feet
and you swing me around
the way we wish hands on the clock could dance
i am left in strands
abandonned like turnips
too frosted for the pick
limp and confused
sweet sixteen's finished in alleys
voices play through the house
in various shades of white
needles skip and screech
with the sunrise children
a few dogs chew away
at rotting treasures
orchids sway in a lonely park
a few blocks down where we used to play
where you held my cuts and bruises
like mounds of nacre
when my tiny fingers were the playground
for your endless laughter
and now look at us
i've become the spittle on your coffee mug
i am a constant dance between eternal salvation
and the survival of your integrity
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