underneath the wet earth.




i have kept myself in the bathroom
with a drink
the razors are rusty the
coughing of the orchids steams the mirror again
and i am sleeping silently along the wall.
my body the ochre of a burnt walnut
i am dreaming of a love letter that
i will never finish writing
and is undeliverable.
the skin we wear peels gently
like a fruit in the winter-
feeling caught up in oneself
we let down the organic guards
and catch onto the streams of
compliment that carry throughout our
humdrum day.
this gun of anxiety,
provided to me from my mother
and the ashes of my barn-childhood
wakes me from the slumber of
wishful thinking.
love,
is me telling you
as such.