Homeward - lost,
(the freeway) where a silky
moon is full and fat
above me; and I, screeching along
the tar, (by far) the best part of the day,
80,90,100: in the dark.

Like a spark; reworked
(aflame,) the shame in being shameless -
radio, plugged, and buzzing; I sing
the moon my lullaby of Placebo, Dylan, Nirvana.

The sky is milky, the moon fills the spectrum,
and I climb (hill, hill, hill) but I can't see a single
star. Open the windows. Feel cold air, nip and
tickle, it tangles itself inside my throat like a voice -
speaking ... whispering ... commanding.

Later, in the brightness (amber headlights haunting
street corners like the ghosts of murdered children
burning so brightly) I paint my fingernails black.
Look myself dead in the eye through a mirror glass,
push my hands through my jagged hair, falling
unevenly across my face.

I think that if you were to see me, you wouldn't
recognize me. If I were too look at that moon too
long it would blind me.

Before sleep, I wonder (in the almost-darkness) if
I were to put myself in your hands again, would you
notice that I feel softer now that I've put on a little weight?
Would I still be beautiful to you? Even though my voice
cracks with misuse and my eyes pool deeper with sadness.

Before sleep, I can almost feel you next to me - I can
almost see shadows like a thousand outlines (deformed,)
I realize that I don't have it in me to draw straight lines
anymore; I don't have it in me to try to remind you
that I haven't changed, that I haven't rearranged myself
around the situation (puzzle pieces,) arrows pointing
in either direction.

Pillow cases; bookshelves, little girls singing their little
girl songs - I can hear them downstairs humming;
sending out vibrations to strangers like waves, rip tides
pulling you in - I realize that I don't know how to
do that anymore. I don't know how to fake it, so I brake
it and start over, thinking: this time is different.

This time, I can stop myself; hinder myself; shackle myself
to a strong arm and literally (do down with the ship,) but
this isn't literature, or a litany - just, a poem before bed:
homeward and lost.