fluffy black nothings
It’s eleven twenty-two
on a Tuesday;
my head feels hollow; I
shake
and it
rattles like a piggy bank
with fragments of melted
Twitter streams swirling their
candycaned stripes
of dandelion beauty through
the wine I had
with the dinner I
didn’t. Acid and sweet tickle
neurons toward misfire, furrow
forethought, torment pulse
with a pounding
in time to the blink of the cursor
where blind fingers
on a blank page
fill a void with fluffy black
nothings in twelve-point
Helvetica that you’ve somehow
managed to read
to the end.
uninspired,
i scribble disjointed words
on scrap paper while
an unclothed winter
peers at me as if from
behind my frosted shower curtain,
indicating with her crooked finger
that i am the one
frigid and revealed.
