𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞

bonedog

the ribs cutting into your stomach like
telephone wires through grey sky
are speaking in morse code again
what's that poem
about growing up in a little house
and sinking through the cushions of an
old floral couch
stiff carpet in an attic bedroom
the windows are bright white and
you don't ever look outside
trace kanji on red tissue paper
in brightest day in darkest night
no evil shall escape my sight