It's cold in this room again
like an unforgiving november morning
dawns the color of blue-grey
you trace the ghosts of your breath in the crosshatched window filtered sun,
remarking on the echo in the house
the dull thud of bare feet on wood floors
the shade, temperature, and slick of frozen glass.
You reach out only to withdraw.
Hiding under the smile of low standards
shearing the years of worry and self-doubt from your face.
I am
for this world I am the dull reflection in a dirty cluttered medicine cabinet
i am the lonely bitter medicine swallowed dry
lumping slightly past my adam's apple.
I am the ensuing slow-track madness of suicide attempts and an inverted self image.
Project deity,
reality less than zero.
Altering my state to a place lower than Kentucky.
A place under the covers
with the lights off
with the eyes of the leering angry unknown unseeing
a million miles away, two inches from my face.
Broken so long ago
that all the pieces can't be found.
Exit
start belligerent car
surrender.
Daze through it
like ghosts of babbling whispers
suspiciously directed at you
of faceless spectres of wind and dull light
before you know it you'll be an old man
but for now you know it
so we're before that point
and we're back in this cold room of an unforgiven sun.
The kind you wrap your fingers around hoping to squelch it
the same way we squelched my sense
my sense of me.
The same way those panaceas for the broken feel sliding down my barren protesting throat
