we could start a

i wore this mood all day
like a fancy dress. even
when the moon tsked and reminded me
how many hours had passed
i hunted silence,
pressing hard on my skull
with two exceptional hands
— we are our own vice —
— we are our own punisher —
and optimism is a great ghost
pacing the outside hallway,
looking for a forgiving door, a
flash of translucence, any
accessible theme.

Meanwhile, in here
— we are wild and torn and alone —
skin is flint. blankets shifting restlessly.
night, a prickly parade of thought
marching toward the same weary conclusions
— we could start a fire if we’re not
careful. we could start a war —