Scratching at the glass
the casing the sills
I suck the tiny
lead paint infected
wood flakes
from under my nails
feeding the pica that
will kill me
sometime in the future.
Snow builds up on the
grilles
ice patterns on the panes
hold my hand to melt another
pattern.
It is cold here, almost
as cold as out there
no one looks my way
no one looks at me
no one sees
no one remembers
me, licking the glass,
waiting.
Rain makes new designs
wearing off the dirt
press against the glass
banging head until welts
form.
Blood trails bookmatch
the rivulets
Harder. More blood.
I see the sky,
deeper blue behind the
rain,
as I wait and wait, for
sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment