Grey Matter on Bed Sheets

A comparison I’ve never made:

Women, like atrophy, and all those shades of grey,

Undone between my mattress and its frame.

For many hours, for many days,

I grow tired of all the sordid things you’ve done on top of me.

 

I was half-awake; a complete waste of useful breath,

To be trapped here with you—nothing to say,

I just wanted to live a little longer without hurting so much.

 

I came out of the woodwork a real boy, and

I’m OK with what has brought me here;

A carving, a hollow, a bent-out-of-true hook, used to blunt a bullet.

 

I provide quite the thoughtful target;

A trepanning of the head with bullets and blades.

Draining my thoughts with sponges and pipes,

Dumped in a bucket and placed out back for the birds to pick for thoughts of worth

And shit out the lesser attempts as whitish-grey smears of hurt.

 

 

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