until the electricity cuts and they find me,
i will envy it who howls my thoughts.
skins them like meat
throws them around their neck.
wafts them to the beat.

it’s in england, heels clicking.
the shimmering stage watches it writhe.
it teases me through the screen,
in the dim bedroom which i reside.

it’ll never feel from its image on the ceiling.
its a poster, a phase, a step behind flesh.
but it’s my skin, my cartilige,
which i pierce, slit in hopes to refresh.

and it’s thumbtacks mock me.
it, who i used to adore,
ascended from the wall,
and pinned me to the floor.

my neck’s twist-tied towards the television.
glued to the digits of one hand,
are the remote’s buttons, matte and grey.
index on the index, ring one the volume,
thumb’s sole purpose is to pause and play.

i hope you, the carpet beneath me,
between my five splayed fingers, my only autonomy,
given i adhere to its propriety,
begrudge me enough to surpass your textile limits,
for tmz to take notice.

dear, under nails that dig, a fist that pounds,
a dream that was to be,
can your fibers scream?
mine are sewn shut, my doing, it is me.