There’s a pyre of calendars burning in the pillows.
Smoke billows to the ceiling in the color of overused pencils.
I’ve become a pious woman and summoned priests
when I mistook scales and grades for the devil.
They sound so small when they ricochet off the headboard
Eat more spinach
Their bouncing tracks knit opaque webs across the room.
I vomit cotton candy after a final tilt-a-whirl trip.
Our throats become papery and green after a while.
Another pen snaps as the chest accordions
and words collapse against each other like dominoes.
Where’s your sense of creativity?
The journal lies agape.
The document starves. It’s been hours since the last edit.
Don’t you want to get paid this month?
It takes three weeks to break a bad habit
but only one more misstep
before my molars fall out, start collecting in the rain catchers
on the linoleum floors of the amygdala during the night
Drink more water
and I’m walking naked through the limbic system.
Don’t bite your nails.
The hippocampus spits out half-digested doves,
their bones clattering down vertebrae
like broken Slinkies.
Just take your calcium
and get back to work.