Insectarium

I am plastered here as sleepy as a mollusk
melted into the floor, waiting to be scraped, peeled.
My saxicoline body is wet with blue anguish,
exploding onto my knees like fat water balloons.
My pearly friends smile at me from my hands.
They smell like iron, or something equally as earthy
and dirty.
Dressed in my clerical calico, I am presentable
for Jesus, or Buddha, or Allah- or no one.
Stupid me. Twice I’ve seen the vacancy signs
lit up like a Christmas parade..
Yet, I’ve whipped my heels around, too afraid.
I begin to think of the things I’ve forgotten before I go;
to feed the cat
to water the plants
to lock the house
to turn off the stove
to kiss my lover
to write goodbye
to say goodbye
to cancel my contracts.
I spin my heels in this way.
Not today. But that’s alright.
I was never too presentable in those moments anyways.
God or Satan would have laughed and spat
for the disgrace that is my mismatched socks.
Instead, I visit in short and intense bursts.
One pill to six sends me to Tiburon for tea with ghosts-
where dead moths collect themselves into a pile
of dried wings and snappy legs.

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