(no subject)
to the cold sores that reappear weeks after my lips have (h/s)ealed.
tonight i come home hoping only to kick through the kelp of my dirty laundry in the dark that sucks the moon of its shine. i come home without the dustcloud haze and the circled, starred, and underlined margin notes of lists. tonight i come home and mayday straight through the boxspring, and leave the blood to dry til morning, with the dead weight of a sleeping body there's pressure enough. old sores, newly opened, are stopped up like a foot in the mouth.
i turn on the light to find the towel and my bearing.
these cold sores keep appearing, threatening smooth, moist skin - an appearance - once a deep red, and now chalky.
i come home repeating
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
and i toe the kelp and kick it
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
and i dive onto the mattress
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
the light is on, i forget i'm looking
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
what does he think of me and does he
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
in his eyes
your life is not pathetic
in his eyes
your life is not pathetic
to him, your life is not pathetic
to him, in his eyes,
your life is not pathetic
i haven't gotten it checked out. i'm tonguing the sores, to smoothen them away, rub them from the underside of my face. i feel them getting wider the more i think about what i don't know. i haven't done much of anything to give me cause for concern, and yet in pamphlet warnings i read it doesn't take much of anything. skin has separated, and is ekeing the moisture from my lips to feed open sores. here are my eyes, looking at my face with my fingers in my mouth pulling inside-out the underside of my face. i'll let go tonight. i'm home, and i'm letting go. reflections tell me little about myself - i see in his eyes what mine do not reflect.
tonight i come home hoping only to kick through the kelp of my dirty laundry in the dark that sucks the moon of its shine. i come home without the dustcloud haze and the circled, starred, and underlined margin notes of lists. tonight i come home and mayday straight through the boxspring, and leave the blood to dry til morning, with the dead weight of a sleeping body there's pressure enough. old sores, newly opened, are stopped up like a foot in the mouth.
i turn on the light to find the towel and my bearing.
these cold sores keep appearing, threatening smooth, moist skin - an appearance - once a deep red, and now chalky.
i come home repeating
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
and i toe the kelp and kick it
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
and i dive onto the mattress
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
the light is on, i forget i'm looking
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
what does he think of me and does he
your life is not pathetic, your life is not pathetic
in his eyes
your life is not pathetic
in his eyes
your life is not pathetic
to him, your life is not pathetic
to him, in his eyes,
your life is not pathetic
i haven't gotten it checked out. i'm tonguing the sores, to smoothen them away, rub them from the underside of my face. i feel them getting wider the more i think about what i don't know. i haven't done much of anything to give me cause for concern, and yet in pamphlet warnings i read it doesn't take much of anything. skin has separated, and is ekeing the moisture from my lips to feed open sores. here are my eyes, looking at my face with my fingers in my mouth pulling inside-out the underside of my face. i'll let go tonight. i'm home, and i'm letting go. reflections tell me little about myself - i see in his eyes what mine do not reflect.