mu(sick)

(i. blue bedsheets)
unobtrusive
weak
and off-white
he listens to lullabies,
stows his rarity in the sounds
surrounding him
so he never listens
to words

(ii. blue skies)
raindrops to enunciate the
bedtime stories his mother never told him
here he is, listening.
(at last)

(iii. seeing stars)
and the ceramic shards of
the cups and dishes
he always drops
-blame his infirm fingers, really-
are the percussive accompaniment
of the all the concussions
he’s ever avoided
but here he is, sentient
(at least)

(iv. faux self-limerence)
craving blunt digits pressing onto
his own skin
yielding to the
heat, his wrists laced with dripping liquid,
arched to his own cloudy touch and
here he is, groaning
to replace all the
moans he’s never tasted

(v. call of silence)
when he is facedown, that’s when he knows
he ought to stay untouched
when he is facedown, then he knows
the day the lullabies he hears
cease to furtively flow and go berserk
will be the day of his
undoing