tired of it,
i'm tired of being your makeshift stream

of being built up like a mound of dirt
and then blown over,
a gust of sand

leave me be. don't dig me up
or have me hold to your promises
like the clay figurine of a god
you adore

there is no joy in your sunlight

my business is this dank kingdom of soil
with no moon and no stars,
stuffed in a pine paneled box
where only the worms are an invasion
of privacy
(not you)

and i don't want to go back to the
land of the living
where the hot wires of my nerves
fired endlessly and in no direction

back to this country of love you
painstakingly painted
across my chest.
lost that map somewhere in a vast synapse.
the dendrites have touched and are closed.
face it, there is no more
room for you.