It seems like the television
was talking to me,
again.
She said it wasn't a problem
but I knew
it would get worse
before she could accept it.
And the bugs, too
make me so afraid
as she had once done.
The neighbours,
the teachers,
a sinking feeling of being hunted.
Laying in bed.
The yellow light from the bathroom
echoing throughout the room.
Tucked away in some L.A. motel,
dead-end, high-end.
It's as if he would step out,
lean against the doorframe
and look at me tenderly.
But my sickness has no form,
it remains effortless
in its ability to tear me apart.
The crescendo of screams,
an orchestra
of the inaudible chatter,
Arabic, English.
My world quietly whispers
for a paranoid foreground,
strangled breathing,
trapped scratching,
echoing throughout the walls.
Faintly echoed in the same breath
as my young lover's exhale,
I stood at the precipice
of his voice, aching
in the same way as one shivers
fighting against the cruel cold.
The world of wonders muted
between ivory plating,
the crushing inevitability looms
and aches between its own jaws. Wondering
to itself,
if it will become untangled
or snap itself in half.
Chased down its own twists
and twine,
spiralling further, plummeting
into the afraid,
some might utter to me
'I know what you mean,'
and whisper back an entirely different fear.
As I lay in bed, my sickness ravaging
I stare at the ceiling,
sweating for a rush or release.
I lay beneath my lover
and watch him with amazement,
he moves without disgrace
and I stay wondering if this is all I will be.
How so wonderful in the way
he exists so vibrant,
bleeding against my monochrome.
Just like a bathroom light
splitting a dark room open with warmth.