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.

Last night I slept for days. The night before, you and yours. Sweet limbs on long islands. Long limbs on skin surfaces. The future of us, scaled to size. The function of two, awake in the back end of a long d r e a m.

Not so simple when you’re finally seeing what’s inside. Not so sweet when your enemy’s no army. When your skin’s off scales and your polish begins to peel in that wishing way. The way the words give you a message you weren’t ready to r e c e i v e.

It’s eager like wanting to know how it ends. The loads of wisdom only you can count as currency. A stand-alone in so many sounds, among so many syllables. She only wants for care to author your autonomy. Easy, for the one who dictates the future of your d e s i g n.