paint by numbers and my writers block
are having sex again. i can't do anything
creative on my own anymore. we are
scattered snapshots, disorganized,
not in order, and i'm my own "out of order"
sign on a bathroom stall door in a public
washroom. my clavicles won't let go of my ankles.
i sleep in diagonals and wake up with
"i-slept-all-wrong" and "i-have-a-stiffness-
i had intercourse with purity,
i used dirt as laundry detergent,
i slept with insomnia as my pillow,
and this morning i ate my hygiene
in the shower. tan lines were typewritten
on my cheeks when i wore your ugly
fingers. you are the coffee stain of
i-wish-i-didnt-do-that on my teeth.
you are the wine stain of i-don't-remember-
without the i-don't-remember part and minus
the wine. let's go fishing and reel in some
of that makeup that covers up upper left
hand placements and downright fuckups.
my notebook is a room and all the letters
are all t