I want to trace the walls, dear,

so I can taste hope again.

Last night you reminded me,

of how twisted I have become,

how my nerves have been severed to

nothing

except for my history

burning hot and stubborn in my

gut like knives and torn paper.

I want to trace the walls, dear.

To feel something better.

Last night was one of those nights

that clawed at my face and brought

the red ink screaming from my pen,

bruising blue underneath my eyes.

I want to trace the walls, dear;

and stop dreaming about digging

until I reach my bones and tap them,

feeling the fragility and feeling leave them

so that I am nearly inhuman.

I want to trace the walls, dear;

and lift myself out that window

and into the night so I can touch

the waxy stars and feel them burn,

clean, alive and real: everything

that I cannot be; everything

that gives me these bruised

blue eyes.