Moth in the Ink Blot

What is a pillow

if not a place to

rest your head,

press it against your nose

and lips to muffle

the panicked gasps

that seep through,

rolling in your chest

like a landslide because

someone forgot

to turn off the faucet,

and now you’re alone,

with your consciousness,

and your thoughts

are stained

by anxiety about

death and the day

after?

***

What is a ceiling

if not a replica

of the sky

on which you can

trace the lines

like clouds

and prophesize

nonsense about

what the shapes mean

but pretend

to know nothing

of ink blots

and how every

time you gazed at them,

something unsettling

stared back?

***

What is a sheet

but a concealer of everything

real and unseen —

the naked vulnerability

expressed only

by the version

of yourself imprinted

and carved

into the mattress

as if a stone altar

on which the bitterness

pours from your eyes

and mouth like

a weary soldier

who has carried

too much and is sent home

with nothing?

***

What are dogs

if not guardians

who watch the wandering

of your ink blotted mind

manifest

onto your body

and build a

wall surrounding you

so that when

yours cave in

you’ll have something

to anchor to and

you can hold on

for as long

as you need?