Song to myself.
Sweet song to all of the parts of me that make me wince in the dark.
Lullaby to my bad and blurry memory
Sonnet to all of the times I have woken at 5pm and treated it like morning,
My heart’s houses and rooms are full of lonely people staring very solemnly at the wall. The walls are white and clinical. They smell like hospital soap and the starchy taste of a pill.
In the back of the house there is a love song shrieking from of a stereo that sounds like bones rattling, sounds like pouring sugar into cuts to make them taste sweet, what goes between the cracks on the sidewalk, all the gum and dirt and clues of life that live between those small and unexplored walls of cement.
At the edge of my lungs contains a warm shallow pond that sits stagnant. It is not familiar with enveloped or kissing flesh.
I am a poet of the Body and I am a poet of the Soul.
I tear apart the body like a wolf until I think I see a soul peeking out from within the guts.
Turns out it is all just dead air down there.
*Inspired by Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself.