exactly fifty five minutes of sleep
left on red LED, i’ll add it
to the running total of hours
i’ve missed since birth, since before,
since the womb, ever hazy-eyed,
awake. seeing light didn’t change
a thing, or breathing air or tasting
on tongue instead of injected
through belly.
i’d trade taste
away if i had to choose a sense
to loose. everything tastes
like a begging for antacid, so
let us skip the charade
and plug me back in to safety.
no more games of the tongue,
the hidden meanings in the hidden
meanings, no more feigned passion
with strangers, no more ill-perceived
words of solace to those once
considered a friend, in a time
of need with children wielding
bigger hearts and bigger knives – for
plunging in one another, but only
killing the mothers on how
they all went wrong and how
washing out with soap never stopped
anyone from cursing this place,
only leaving a proper sting
on the tongue to be useful later,
mostly in the morning while
i add to my running total.
