I’ve made love seven times today;
To the door,
To the past,
With all of my ghosts and their cousins.
Satin children all lines up to see me fail.
I drank a cup of tea in a room labeled loneliness,
And then cracked my vein open
And fed it with drugs from the graveyard,
Ones I had collected that morning,
Distilled from frost
And suffering from empathy.
It was then that I caught myself in the mirror,
Propped up at the tomb of myself in the future.
I was playing at the cinema.
My head was the projector.
And my eyes saw what you will never see,
Your contempt for me,
Which you kept hidden in a little canvas satchel,
Under the bones
That used to be our bed.