Watching bugs twitch in a ceiling light while waiting for the sun to break
Morgan Maple 

watching bugs twitch in a ceiling light while waiting for the sun to break
i want a ceiling fan.
mostly so the draft can sweep
all the chalky memories under my bed.

bugs in fluorescent lighting
crawl out of their day place
away into my bedroom shadows,
munching their pincers until i dream
on the cum stained down comforter.

the click/ of a closed door
seems to define me.
a single moment isn’t enough closure when
he is sitting on his bed in the back

room and i, wedged against the wall couldn’t
talk breathe about talked talked circles.
beds are peculiar that way, reminding
chilling defining of the person
who sleeps in their sheets.

i never got to see if that room
he shut us in had a ceiling fan.
if it did i know it was coated with dust flakes.

don’t speak up, that silent voice
lies on top of me crushing a
wrought iron frame into my back.

i hear his words echo off skull bone.
i feel like i forced you.
repeats/
               repeats/
                              repeats/
                                              repeats/
                                                              repeats / / /

i can’t sleep.
my bugs living in
laugh light above my bed
watch my sanity like guards chained to a loose
fence shaking      yanking              staring at the ceiling.

new moon nights are crowd pleasers.
my apartment parking lot steel pipe light
switches off      on          off           on          off
screams orange cuss in my open window.

i like being alone with my bugs
in this room on my unwashed down comforter.
there is no need for outside things

pine trees. movie theaters. locker room talk.
mushy drowning kisses. box hands digging in hips. crevices in flesh.
buying the wrong christmas present.

i’ll leave champagne vinegar out in mason jars
so together my bug friends
can toast
letting go of these
outside things the world raves about.