Donielle-Dee

paint by numbers and my writers block are having sex again. i can't do anything creative on my own anymore. we are scattered snapshots, disorganized, not in order, and i'm my own "out of order" sign on a bathroom stall door in a public washroom. my clavicles won't let go of my ankles. i sleep in diagonals and wake up with "i-slept-all-wrong" and "i-have-a-stiffness- in-my-neck-and-a-crick-in-my-back." i had intercourse with purity, i used dirt as laundry detergent, i slept with insomnia as my pillow, and this morning i ate my hygiene in the shower. tan lines were typewritten on my cheeks when i wore your ugly fingers. you