there is a teacup resting on my windowsill
and paint is still splattered on my sheets
the moon fights to pour light between swaying curtains-
eager to shine awareness on each moral sin.
my body is washed in numbness
but it dries out with the twitch of a limb
fiery heat bites the skin no longer fighting to stay covered
but is caressed by the cold licks of wind.
the canvas of golden-brown is a deep purple
and yellow begins to make itself known too
but I remind myself pain always passes-
despite it being the way kidney stones do.
