plucking hairs from my sweater
even in the middle of summer
we sweat, and gleam
forget to breathe, and I, as a compass,
can’t make out through the fog.
I keep getting lead back to the emotions
that bound me, and his claws in my ribcage,
like a secret letter written with dejection;
yet those words became my alibi, my reason.
I broke the buttons of my shirt,
and wore my sleeves down over my hands
to make my arms feel longer, and my self-loathing nature
came back as if I were a moth to a flame.
And I ate that indecision and poisoned myself,
dripping candle wax and promises I never intended to need,
and the structure of my paper castle fell down,
over and over until I learned how to put in it my pocket
and just breathe.
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