as the fan creaks with velocity and the wind outside
growls without space,
the door looms over my awaken eyes.
my posters scrape the looming sky
like the cruel idea of a merciful god.
if you can promise to be good,
i might hold on until tomorrow.
i might try and
convince myself
to make it through the night.
and as the carpet turns on itself,
curling at each corner,
the furnishings rust.
my figurines waltz and turn
through each rock and stone
these pillows hurt my neck
and you burn a hole into my chest
but with each promise you make,
each promise to be good,
i’m left further downstream, waiting.