justifying my choices to you is
catching butterflies on a windy day.
and if I did catch one,
I’d release it immediately anyway
bugs
Poem #708
shadow of the fan strobing on the ceiling
my skin burns like hot ice
maybe I should sleep
fall into the heavy slumber of summer
dream of lazily watching bugs crawl over me
their minuscule legs tickling my arms and legs
they bite
I scratch the pink welts raw
maybe I should stay awake