a human shield

split-lip autumn. i’m only ever half-awake but i never sleep. my eyelids an afterthought, turned translucent as a prayer made in an empty room. gardenias sprout from the backs of my knees, the sky stretches bone-like & skeletal. i spend all of august with someone else’s skin stuck in between my teeth. october is the silence that follows. pronounced, more felt than seen. like those neighborhood kids with their faces like jack-o-lanterns. the dead bird i found on my front porch on tuesday. i miss michigan and its odd weather. the stars outranked. the wounded light. the shallow cut in my forearm. the way it felt [like a primal rage] like my faulty sternum plugged out of its socket. a pulmonary blackout. because i said ‘i want you to love me,’ and you said ‘no, not today’ [&—the damage was formidable]. a linear regression. the heart an animal bleeding out on its side. the spine reshaped; used as an ore. & i could drain every lake we ever swam in as kids & i could reach out to touch you as long as there’s stained glass in between us (a church in between us). & i could throw my body in front or your body & still i couldn’t get you to want me.