15: Dec 2016 #02 - More Or Less, Ghosts
Authored by Lake W.
More Or Less, Ghosts
by Lake W.
I like to say you never did anything to me. Instead, let’s talk about how roof shingles press together to ward off cold, turn charcoal cloaks to it. I abstracted paintings in my room, layered lemonade yellow over river water, and pasted panels of brochures to cities I’d drawn on pruned paper. You said your nails were better sharp, pink and red horizons. I left my window open for this winter. I’m a churchgoer, and I drown myself, tuxedo before towel. You dried me until wings fled bone. When you turned me onto my stomach, I opened my mouth to the floor, fit my lips around a tile square.