The glass is dirty every time I try to look through,
Though I open my eyes I still can’t recognize,
Can’t see past this groove.
Mouth open wide to taste the sticky sorrow of the other side,
Veiled in the fruit of the forbidden dripping over-ripe.
Wake my senses from the overdose of comma,
Tickle my fancies ‘til the pain subsides.
Take back the pound of flesh dripping from the branches,
held in hands of selves fresh from suicide.
My missplaced adams
my aching bones.
A space in time in a room without a view, but full of mirrors.