selfishly

my eyes bleed inward, mostly,
starting at either outside edge and trailing inward
in no particular pattern, creating a soft
red plain, soft because
it doesn't quite connect.

its that product-encrusted curl relaxing about 90
degrees too little. its the monotony
of backlighting, or not enough hours between now
and the morning alarm. its because
mississippi is the only state that you can drag
the river any time and find bodies is too small to read.

its measureable, like the time the nurse pulled blood
straight out of me. when i woke up, i was afraid of her
because i didn't think she was real. i put my hand up
to keep her away.

its the list you give me, the rules that exist
in space without order, the ones that have left holes
in my mind for seeds to be planted. you don't understand
what isn't real, either, so maybe someday
i'll write it all down.

its irrationality, really, the handsome
boy from 307 raking the place between
my brain and my heart. they can live off
the land, there, harvesting indecisiveness
and all her friends.