I eat mistakes
like guilty pleasures by the cornered
illumination of dawning kitchens;
tiptoeing while birds
keep their heads inside wings.
Sometimes walls hear
the chewing of crunchy lies
in the pantry’s backlight
and the sun rises with
the morning breath of broken promises.
I’ve learned to digest in the dark,
to avoid puking mid-sleep,
to count the words I failed to keep
in my head when laying it
on shame isn’t enough. So
I embrace nightmares by becoming one
and daydream that someone
is happy to be dreaming of me.
And then,
in breakfasts of regret,
I’m one day older
and still growing sidewards.