I washed my sheets but I couldn't slip them back on;
I crawled between the stitching and the seams
Woven like cocoons or cavities,
And carved out my body to fit the mold, so when I shook,
Everything would swing,
Gently, elegantly;
Like a feather from a dove,
Thought to bring peace to my hollowed eyelids
Shut like doors slammed in a lover’s spit.
But who could love this?
A window cracked in the smallest corner
So you couldn't find the wet or the cold;
The filter of your tenth last cigarette
Smoked to the core,
Haunting you with promises of a yellowed-out age.
But there's more to life than this,
More to life and more to death.
I've painted it with the colors in the chemicals
In the factory of my mind,
But are they manufactured shapes or works of art?
And who am I, to define that thin line
From the comfort of my bed?
I call for that feathered dove again, crawling deeper in
Swimming in a pool of sheets
And drowning far within them.