[thisislife]

Almost my entire existence in this place is being stirred in a teacup:
Dirty. Haven’t cleaned it since I got here.
Cheap chinatown tea with spittle spilling through it
As though my backwash were the ocean’s tide,
My lips some insurmountable force,
My hands the moon.
And the dusty lamplight does no justice to me,
Not to my glory,
Not to my majesty,
Not to whatever I have left behind to be here;
My head’s now gone musty as though moths are eating through it
And I am a cheap sweater decaying in the closet.
My limbs some ancient thing,
My flesh the fabric.
This place does no justice to me
As I stir my existence away.
One more cup until dawn.
One more dawn until day.
By then I will be drunk away
Into the darkest places which curl warm and lovely,
Musty in the bluest nights
Beside bedside lamps half-heartedly twitching
And the empty halls of still inhabited homes.
Maybe then I can leave.