I heard that you went out last night,
looking as if the entire landscape could melt
with your body heat.

I stayed home, took a Vicodin
hoping to inspire enough human
qualities to be classified as such.

Suddenly, I knew how the girl that ran away
on the train felt when she didn’t look
to see whether it was going east or west.

And at three in the morning,
when I can’t stand the thought
of my walls looking bland,
I take the white sheet I’d stolen
from a construction site last week,
and spread it across my bedroom floor—

I paint the walls until I’m painted as well,
my skin seemingly gone
when yellow is the first color you see.