watching bugs twitch in a ceiling light while waiting for the sun to break

i want a ceiling fan.

mostly so the draft can sweep

all the chalky memories under my bed.

bugs in fluorescent lighting

crawl out of their day place

away into my bedroom shadows,

munching their pincers until i dream

on the cum stained down comforter.

the click/ of a closed door

seems to define me.

a single moment isn’t enough closure when

he is sitting on his bed in the back

room and i, wedged against the wall couldn’t

talk breathe about talked talked circles.

beds are peculiar that way, reminding

chilling defining of the person

who sleeps in their sheets.

i never got to see if that room

he shut us in had a ceiling fan.

if it did i know it was coated with dust flakes.

don’t speak up, that silent voice

lies on top of me crushing a

wrought iron frame into my back.

i hear his words echo off skull bone.

i feel like i forced you.

repeats/

repeats/

repeats/

repeats/

            repeats///

i can’t sleep.

my bugs living in

laugh light above my bed

watch my sanity like guards chained to a loose

fence shaking     yanking            staring at the ceiling.

new moon nights are crowd pleasers.

my apartment parking lot steel pipe light

switches off       on        off        on       

screams orange cuss in my open window.

i like being alone with my bugs

in this room on my unwashed down comforter.

there is no need for outside things

pine trees. movie theaters. locker room talk. mushy drowning kisses.

box hands digging in hips. half moons in flesh.

buying the wrong christmas present.

i’ll leave champagne vinegar out in mason jars

so together with my bug friends

we can toast

letting go of these

outside things the world raves about.