I dug my back down the bedroom wall, cracking, eating,
its fluffed, old mold.
You are
getting the better of me.
With raged hands you press
my bones further, like clay, creating
a bumpy texture against the white paint.
My throat, jealous and hot,
stole your air. There was never
enough for the both of us. You
snuck closer to me. Folding words
into my ears like musical notes recognized by a sad mind
that knows the song too well.
Jumping out of piano keys,
the music began to bang
in my brain, soft, then loud.
Calming me—yet too familiar.
A chorus that bounces and builds,
I tap my feet. To the rhythm, I scream.
How you told me air always existed where I breathed; it was only a lie.
Even with the stars out, so planned
and heaven like, organized by degree
of light, you tell me to stop;
Don’t admire them. They are not real. You cover my hand over my mouth
as I drift to sleep in tune to confusion,
a lullaby built on growing lies
