By Matthew Barton
A hole in my bed sheet
I got a hole in my bed sheet
somewhere I can’t sleep
a place my face weeps
no one will listen to me speak.
In her blank tone that line repeats
“We are done. I need to be free.”
Silvery curves would cover endlessly
our bodies laying long feverishly,
but there is no more warmth in me.
Wearing this hoodie I’m going to freeze.
It buries my mouth. I can’t breathe.
Her boyfriend, I will never be.