Elephants

My room

is full of elephants.

Trumpeting prophets,

whose footprints have been lost

in the gusts of greens and groggy eyes.

Or thrusts of thought pumping jagged sighs through lips left ajar.

My face

is full of fleshy hands,

to hide in when the sand is dropping.

standing water lullabies, my mind’s collecting flies.

Pillow fists and sheets to choke, my skin’s already turning blue.

With wistful tunes from ceiling fans, I’d rather stay in bed alone.

My eyes

are bloody yet again.

With salt at least Its genuine.

But fruits fermented, grass ablaze at least I can escape.

Id love to hide, to run and run, I see myself hitting the ground.

To scrapes and scraps of memory from nerve endings gone limp.

This room

is full of elephants.

I try to cover ear canals.

This silence is uncomfortable and I look down the ledge.

I hate to be a bummer and I never mean to ruin nights,

but if I stand alone tonight,

I’m terrified of what I’ll do.

Trumpeting and trumpeting,

please dont leave me in this place.

Im clumsy and can’t trust my feet,

I’m aiming for the grass.

To hug me as I contemplate,

the dawn is a cacophony,

and Im just getting home again,

to feeling out of place.