spilled milk
( it’s  just that  now there’s none  left and it doesn’t seem
that important until it piles up broken plates dig into your
heels and  you can barely  see the floor anymore  because
When’s  the last time you had the energy to do something
about it  and it piles up again and  you put it off until later
until it piles up until the water level’s at your  windowsill
and now there’s no use and now there’s ) no use crying .

                                                             sunday night 7:00 p.m

when i get home too early i sit in bed and make no sound and i think about how the ceiling is too low or maybe the mattress is too high. i think about the grey stains on the wall and the dust on the fan. i think about how i never bothered to paint any of the things i said i would on the walls on the roof.

nothing fills in the holes in the wall until they are overflowing.

there’s so much space in this in-between time. there’s a mirror across the room and i see a wild girl and shadows and angles and hunched over somewhere between subject and object. i sit and think and sit and think and stay and wish i was somewhere else but maybe everywhere

the mirror rephrases the question: the desire to change is not enough.

i turn my head up at white walls and windows full of nothingness and grey mesh screens and sink in soundless waters.