it looks like scalding hot showers that last until the water burns with ice.
it looks like heaps of clothes in every space. my apartment, my honda civic.
it looks like a cold and unfeeling black leather couch to pass out on.
it looks like a plastic baggie held by shaking hands and ashy fingers.
it looks like a digital clock flashing the wrong time on a cluttered nightstand.
it looks like dust gathering on books that were started, never finished.
it looks like greasy hair stuck to a feverish forehead jolting awake.
it looks like a supervisor crossing their arms, waiting on an arrival.
it looks like a raw and bright red circle of skin where a scab used to be.
it looks like blooming bruises under eyes, abused only by their own body.
it looks like me.
it looks just like me, and i look scared.
-December 4th, 2017
YOU ARE READING
PROSE
Poetrythe pen may be mightier than the sword, but that sword certainly thirsts for more blood (if you like me, vote me if you love me, show me)
