Prisons

I can't breathe when it gets like this;

when everything around me blurs

and his voice - too smooth like guitars,

and I giggle to relieve the stress of

all these silences that make no sense to

me. Bent beside someone broken, asleep

in a bed that grew around ivy until

everything else withered away into bibles,

and sermons, and summaries, and you!

And things truthfully untrue like a sickness

spreading on the wind; air and smoke

(the joke) of trying to live between the two.