trichotillomania

I listen to songs of fire while outside
snow falls in frozen flapjacks, silent
maneuvers of lovers in cars.

You will remember me as the lyrics baby,
of frost and love.

Of burning your tongue on too
hot a coffee—you will miss the milk
will miss the feeling
of someone else washing your hands
with soap, while you gaze into
your peacock mirror and graze
the top of my head with your eyes.
There is a dissemination
of words all over the bathroom floor,
as I bite glitter glass from between your teeth.

It’s cute that you think that your blues will
impress me, because this machine doesn’t accept
new bills.

Essentially, this is a letter to tell you
that I think of you
in the evenings.
And when I sit at this rusty checkered table
covered in empty paper bags and memories
your eyelashes and their shadows on my thumb
haunt me—will always haunt me.

So we run our necks along this
peacock mirror, to see the colours
adjacent to this winter.
What we find instead are lists—
cord rolled promises with roots still
attached, forming breeding herds of
passive aggressive beings
wildly kicking at your sink.

—This mania of trying to
thaw your hands.