Bare of Bones

I’m so tired I could eat a shoe,so tired I could repeat things already said.

A shoe could eat me, I’m so tired—repeated things already said my name.

Hosannas pour from my fingertips,I’m so tired of thinking.

I dipped my toes in salsafor the exfoliation of my dog’s tongue,bought a palette and many jars of paint.

My wall is bare.My body is bare.My bones are bare of me.

Last night I dreamed of a sex show—sex is always a show,a performance or a vibration,sure, but always a show.

Unwind. Take the top off your headand climb to the next spaceinside your own mindwhere the walls are gleamingwhite as hunger,smooth as amnesia.

My heart jumps from wire to wire—always tight, frantic, fragile,beating hard with each stepacross this tightrope of want.

I could eat exhaustion like communion,swallow fatigue whole.The dog’s tongue knows moreabout tenderness than I do.

Paint jars sit unopened,promises I can’t keepto the blank wallthat mirrors my ribs,my hollow architecture.

In the sex show dream,I was both audience and performer,watching myself disappearinto someone else’s vibration,someone else’s tired repetition.

Hosannas or hysteria—what’s the differencewhen your fingertips leak prayersand your body forgetsit was ever full of anythingbut this beautiful, bone-deep hunger.