like many days
a clouded slate of polished rocks
a stupor induced by mania
lay for hours and stared at the ceiling
wishing it was you
and could you come back and hold me into myself
and breathe dear.
and now that i've outed myself,
put the defining limit upon my feelings,
composed the ultimate hypocrisy inches from your face
you still have no idea
and i'm still making love to razor blades
and mating the pages, stuck and rusted.