"wake up wake up"
your skin is running orange—wet with the pouring morning—leaking over the sheets you collaged on your body. it is summer but you horde heat making my pores cry and scream beside you.
"come on get up get up"
your face always strikes me, embarrassing my chance glimpse, piercing every corner of my face—making my eyes ache like the soreness of a hungover sprain, a crack resting on the cusp of my jaw. you turn over, swirling deeper into selfmade storage.
"it’s late you’re late"
you’re zipped tight inside yourself: balled up, head down, shoulders up, back out, stomach in. your appeasement to stationary living is crashing like waves at my neck—holding me underneath my overbite, my tongue battling at the relentless undertow. day in day out tide in day out day in tide out.
"jean please don’t make me do this."
you’re heavy. lead. buried. every morning i have to dig. dig. dig. dig dig dig dig dig dig! the soil is crusted over