Therapist, I’m braindead.
I’m broke in Carolina,
bleeding with concentration filtering
I’m getting high off her supply of nude pictures she left
beside the bed, drawing me in like an addict.
White lights highlight the tattoos I’d gotten when
she loved me, too.
I did it to myself.
Truth revealed itself through a blank stare
and a crooked smile;
my numb veins warm the neutrons in the brain
I used to explain myself to her.
Aside from thoughts of her sweaty,
slim body wrapped around mine,
I’ve got no skeletons in my closet.
(© 2022 AC)