I've been inviting you in
far too often;
I already feel your
preliminary effects,
stilted suffocation
of emotion
under the guise of
properly working organs -
living in a body not yet
shuttered from despair and
December dark.
I wish for sharp angles
of moonlight and nausea,
to obscure any memories
that once offered stability,
so I learn not to lean
on gravity.
The gravestones on my hips
protrude, and whenever I move,
even the slightest of reaches,
I'm reminded of you.
You're everything I never
knew would plague my
dreams.
You call me
without directions, without a name
and somehow, I understand.
You're the same tidal wave,
a cyclical hurricane pulling
at my chambers,
