I am writing more poems these days. My thoughts are interrupted, and dreamlike. They fly and tumble like monkeys swinging from branches.
These days, I have less less less to say, more times repeated,either writhing or couched in metaphor. I want the eavesdroppers to feel lost, yet satiated, all the same.
I am using rhetorical devices to avoid you. I am using twisted paths of narrative to confuse you. I am pinching adverbs from the sky like dead and falling stars.
I stopped by the store the other day to buy 70 spf sunblock, to ward off the paparazzi glare of you.
If I feel exposed, it isn’t anything new. I’ve been naked before, while voyeurs re-sketched their idea of me. Charcoal tracing over my flaws, tripping over the broken parts that have not healed. The less I said, the more I answered.
At the end of the cold night, I went home, clothed in layers of exactitude.