haunted by
a habit,

in the middle of
a sentence

to describe the sound
of distress

in a voice that
tames the
tides.

not quite a creature
in flight

but high enough, though
skin don’t
itch..

my work shirt’s
tight,

a spritz of deep sea
in these
veins

to dilute this
miscast
hate,

cloud dancer..
bring the
rain.

you ordered me to
suck it in

and tuck the rest
away,

asking me to hide
again,

as to not be in
the way,

but i’m less meek
than before,

i’ll just shut this door,
then jam the
lock..

and eat the
key,

i’m starved for
more,

and sick from
talk,

please leave
me be.