and.

and I’ve got
bruised knuckles
again,

and there’s another
mark 
on the shower-wall’s 
knock-off marble.

and I’ve 
run myself
in mental circles
for another taste
of your acrid
poison,

and all these
mental talons
have a fully outfitted battalion
of vice-grips 
around
my chest,

and my heart rate
hasn’t slowed
in two weeks.

and I’ve worshiped
at an altar
of masochism 
for so long
that
I can only
hear songs of entropy

when the nightmares
take hold
over and over and over

again.

and I never meant
to go so many
nights 
without sleeping,

but for a moment
of chiaroscuro agony
you had me dreaming
of summer,

even after all these endless
bummers

made me erect
an idol of ice
out of a photographed
reflection.

and I never intended
to thaw
it with anyone’s
radiative convection

again. 

Willie Watt
10.27.16

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