I talk to me.

The scale tells me I am 17 pounds heavier,
than a year ago. And two years older.
I do not play guitar, very much.
I am not painting enough.

There is a tiny switchblade,
inside my gut.

My brain is making some plan,
but in secret, so I only
know that it is every excited,
and that is not enough information,
because my brain can get
very excited
for bad reasons.

From bones.

We stayed at a hotel, in a psychic town, that claimed
to be haunted, where once inside, we were all lulled
into immediate sleep, and I awoke, haunted by the
surety that I had wasted my life, and these words:
this is what a ghost is.