Bee Morris

Guilt Duvet

Pulled over myself a guilt duvet.
Ignored a whole week of dawns.
Stared at episodes of mania and kissed every one of their teeth.
Shoveled gravel from his voice into my pocket, for sentiment’s sake.
Pressed against her open-handed open hand.
Considered the shape of falling water; colorless coldness.
Made the occasional mistake on several occasions.
Split despair into two distinct halves.
Heard the poet say: “Avenue A is near the river.”
Listened to terrible music composed by the first love of my life.
Wore my favorite fire like a dress.
Got halfway inside of language before it cruelly spat me out.
Became very serious for a matter of days.
Decided that there was no point, then that there was one.
Laughed because what else was I to do, what else was I to do.