gulleys

So tired,

moreso tired

than ever before.

Lower eyelids fill with gravel

and drop

to the floor

to catch sideways waves

of rain.

Busy murdering

in my sleep.

A real life, a routine,

engulfed by anxiety

and chemical kisses.

The six inch hunting knife

in my glove box.

He uses it to open

a bag of fennel seeds.

I watch him carefully.

Taking up the blade, I

cut my shadow self loose.

She slivers blackly

through the grass,

winds up dirty talking

in the corner of a jail cell,

eating bacon and mayonnaise

sandwiches in bed at midnight.

Ugly pressure

slowly creeps

up my leg,

up my toe.

The amputated shadow,

darkling, she knows,

she wrestles

a bag of dreams

over my head.