Drawn Out

I draw self-portraits with a ruler. In frames with blood-stains, it's ominously honest. These days the conversations taste like morning sickness vomit. Make-shift bull-shit of wit makes up for most of it. The desire to spill my guts is heavy, but the confessions won't let me mention their secrets. So I swat at flies as I caress the emptiness of a hallowed out chest. And I ask myself as If I care: Was there ever anything there or has this body always been so bare? Slow-motion Sundays hum in a familiar tone. My sheets are still dirty, yet my bed is tired and alone. Airplanes shake my dreams awake. Adorn me with cold sweat and headaches. If I said I knew what I was doing, I'm not sure what I meant. If only it were easier. If only I had a clue. Even with a compass, I couldn't draw you.