Conversations with Myself in the Dark. {Poem}

Conversations with Myself in the Dark.


I’m hot, again.

My nightgown clinging to my breasts

I push it down

To sop up the beads of sweat 


Time, what’s the time?

I reach for my phone,

Batting the night stand

Clink, clink.

There it is

My jade ring tapping the screen,

Like a dessert fork to crystal

It’s time for a toast,

To say what needs to be heard


3:09 a.m.

Of course

It’s that time

My time, quiet

Save for the hum of the neighbor’s heater

And then, she sighs as she rolls over.

I can hear the crunch of her pillow.

She’s probably holding Fluffers still.

I wonder when she’ll toss him aside

For a new stuffed friend

Everyone gets old after awhile.


I’m up because it’s time to plan.

How to execute the little things,

So the big things are possible

I’m not talking about chores,


Words that turn to sentences,

That link arms and make the paragraphs.


More reasons—

Fear of light

Exposed consequence

As the sun rises

Symptoms aglow from years ago,

A half made bed,

The barbeque, now a tomb of ash,

Both nightstands belong to me, so do the drawers.


What was once crowded emptiness is now space.

Space for this,


What the tortured do, the artists do.

Sleeping makes no sense

With a belly full,

An Escher mind that’s all mine

Drawing sunlight in the moonlight.

I can live a whole lifetime in an eve,

Climbing stairs to nowhere and everywhere


I can’t hear when I sleep.

I can’t write.

I have these weird dreams

I try to piece together

But they don’t fit.

Like a poem or something

Only for the poet to know

Confusing the reader

Frustrated and beholden to

His poison.


I prefer this—

Up, sweaty like I just got f*cked

And I can’t remember how good it felt

Left with the aftermath

Raw, pulsing, wet

Words leaking.

The half made side is taken,

Has been for a while now.

I reach over, grab for him

He’s cold and hard

I need him close,

Pulling him on top of me

The moon glow of his empty face

Blank until it’s not…


I f*ck him right back

Covering him with black

Faster, faster, faster

It’s pouring out of me now

My hands can’t keep up.


Where does this come from?


Sleep has no place in a writer’s dream

A distraction

Conscious and sweaty is what I need to be

Seeing when the rest are blind

I know why I wake

For this—The silence,

It speaks to me.


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