Unmade thoughts

Gray undoes my thoughts // reverse-spider spinning cloths 

Rain does make the spinning stop 

I’m always dizzy and being made so by the pitfalls in my head

//worthy of being dead they said //

Of being dead // of being dead // of being death

Sometimes I feel like a reaper 

Or at least a reapers // pet 

Because I put a scythe against all my dreams’ necks 

Blood fountains // invisible mountains 

I don’t know I’m climbing // until all my bones are split 

Until my lungs are tiny infernos where Dante finds hell 

All seven layers // in my chest // Purgatory in the pockets of my vest 

Resetting // recalibrating // as the clouds quiver  

Remember// what it means // to be // okay.