medicate

he tastes like citrus

and acts like cetirizine,

numbs the burning in my eyes

and the itching beneath my skin.

everything is boxes.

the walls aren’t closing in,

but we get higher every day,

as passerby seconds sneak past

to build it up to the sky.

my ceilings are a canvas

of false expectation and the floors

are littered with problems

not mine to begin with.

the metronome clock regales me

with a humdrum soundtrack,

melted into the symphony

of all the great tragedies.

dido croons as she’s laid in earth,

tatyana lays bare her heart.

i’m flying, caught somewhere between the aether

and the art,

but we get higher every day.

i raise him to my lips,

or my lips to him.

there is solace in the drag

of his fingers against my skin.