spine fires
they're at me again.
I sleep like a dying old man.
third floor misery.
dislocated neck bones
from the fall that
could have killed me.
the most dishonest silence
ever cast in a roomful of
me and the guilt.
the mattress on the floor
next to the dirty laundry.
the light bulb hanging
from a chain from the ceiling.
the dormant, dust-covered television.
The pile of books;
some read, some not.
I made it a point to
leave the walls blank
when I moved in last winter
just so I would have more space
to talk to.
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