cement pillow

i'm claustrophobic, crawling in my own space.

trying to train myself to pick up my messes,

throw away the things that no longer apply

or pertain

to this life of mine anymore.

and i keep imagining that if i write down this clutter,

someone will be kind enough to throw it out to the curb

and let me rest peacefully.

but, it's here. and i'm exhausted.

it's as though too many boxes of your memory

can throw me off,

have me tripping over myself.

and i just want to be alone.

without you knocking on my skull...

promising-

threatening-

that you'll be back in the morning

just to remind me of what i deserve

without ever telling me why.

i can't make sense of these riddles.

i'm tired of suggestive glances,

or reliving the taunting of childhood-

brass knuckles and shackles vs sticks and stones.

i hate to wish you misery...

but i want to see your sadness in the sky.

i want it to turn your pillow into cement

the moment your head is sleepy.

this makes me feel cruel....

leaves everything tasting bitter.

and forcing myself to hate something

i've always loved

has me hiding in the dark, stone caves of my chest

to keep from being seen or tempted.

junetwentysixthtwothousandandseven