Night Melting
Remembering real life
exists coincides with feeling
the lemony soreness
of my shoulders. Realizing
I never opened a door—one
with little turquoise
gems and gold paint
incorporated lavishly into the framework—
that led me to a stair-filled
world of demons, is exactly
the same as finding
a miniscule mound of gunk
piled in the corner of my eyes. I’m always
trading love-filled ship rides
for bright lights and bad breath.
