More Or Less, Ghosts

by Lake W.

I like to say you never did anything
to me. Instead, let’s talk about how

roof shingles press together to ward
off cold, turn charcoal cloaks to it.

I abstracted paintings in my room,
layered lemonade yellow over river

water, and pasted panels of brochures
to cities I’d drawn on pruned paper.

You said your nails were better sharp,
pink and red horizons. I left my window

open for this winter. I’m a churchgoer,
and I drown myself, tuxedo before towel.

You dried me until wings fled bone.
When you turned me onto my stomach,

I opened my mouth to the floor,
fit my lips around a tile square.