All these voids

meeting in the middle feels

like an answer, so I keep
writing. For a night

we curl into the same net-
work, and I am grateful

for the warmth. I fall asleep

to the sound of my own
mouth speaking

and speaking. I delete the
evidence. None of us

are here in the morning.

It’s better

when I have a storm in me, 

something to keep me up at

My best material:  

a wounded thought, blister-
ing itself

in the heat. Loathing wears 

a party hat. They clap,

I singe. Maybe you’re 

listening too.