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its in a white desk chipped and scratched from my hands use, at the end of my room
its not so sharp as, to warn you against picking it up
but it still hurts enough

its holding the writings, its filled with the pictures, and the wishes
and the broken crayons
i tried to burn when you were gone
but they melted in my hands
all the colors ran
and the wax burned my arms

while you were wading, through all the dust that i
kept buried under my sheets
did you see me? through your bloodshot eyes,
and did i look anything like your allergies

my legs never looked so much like a painting of the space under my bed
with bars in between, breaking up the brightness,
and blood filling in the rest

so stop giving me these souvenirs, that you find at the railroad tracks
cause i'll accept and keep them in my room
when you refuse to have them back

even though throwing knives and railroad spikes can’t attack on their own
i invented a systems of locks and traps,
to keep them in my drawers whenever i come home




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Orafist Worcester, Massachusetts

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