Room of One
She only talks to me when I’m skin and
bones.
Sits in the crook of my neck, waiting for
the blood to bend over.
I’m definitely that kind of girl.
The one who’s easily pushed into making
decisions that spell f o r e v e r.
It’s simple, like seeing what’s out there.
In here- a lot of fake gold and garbage,
portraits and holograms of holy ghosts.
Simple, like sounding out a synonym for a
creature who lives in a c a v e.
She only comes to me when I’m close to
comatose.
Sucks the dry from my mouth to make the
medicine heal in real time.
I tell her, all of my friends are dead, almost
dead or resurrected so please leave the
same way you came i n.
It’s easy, like filing paper in the corner
cabinets.
The ones of wood in cobwebs and muscle
memory. Sitting just so for the lady who
shuffles past every hour, on the hour.
Easy, like working a room of o n e.
