The bar’s last call pours patrons
onto the sidewalk below
my apartment. Their conversations, loud
and fluid, dilute to a muted roar.
I haven’t spoken in four days.
My words– a corrosive itch, I scratch
in the shower, hoping to release
what is eating me.
All I unearth is skin, peeling
in clumps like wet paper from ash trees
that died without a creak. Down the drain
pieces roll. Thin cuts– inflamed
and pulsating– are what remain. A reminder
I’m alive but don’t exist
in the minds of those I’ll remember forever.
Every phantom buzz costs
an hour of clenched eyes
failing to defy another
sleepless night as July heat
seeps into my room
until it’s no longer mine. I’m not at home
in this world.
May it one day burn–
slower than the sentences rotting
in the throats of men like me.
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