Threadbare
2/17/20
Raw holes gnawing at the weakest parts
Appearing in the frayed denim window-
a Kubrick villain announcing, here’s anxiety!
My weakest parts have always been my knees
I have begged too knobby, too right angle, too asphalt
Hopelessness tucks its fingers beneath my chin
and says, Lean on me when you’re not strong
Maybe we are the unhinged closet,
and depression is the moth
Or maybe we are the stifling sweater,
and depression is the moth
Or maybe we are threadless,
inside the belly of a closed door,
and depression is the moth
I am sufficiently naked,
exposed enough to make this declaration
Each sun dripping like hot placenta,
each moon hanging like cold bones
Everything orbiting around something,
everything having a set path
I have pulled sadness on and off again so many times
I have lost the ability to count on revolutions
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