New Moon

I wear tights again. Their constricting design and cinched waist remind me how September strangles summer, how you will be wrapped up and buried alive now for months to come. It rains. A psychic told me my new year begins now, and so far he's been right about everything else so who am I to judge. I sit at the typewriter tearing drivel into its seams; this is not what I'm supposed to be singing about. The typewriter knows it too, but consents. Give a monkey unlimited time and it'll write Hamlet, after all.

It's just that my time is not unlimited. I sat under the desert stars one night and wished for the world, but the Universe gives you such crooked instructions to reach it, I've begun drawing maps of my own.  It's getting cold out there, and just as cold in here, I sleep so well at night, it's my days that fill themselves with nightmares. My maps burn up while I'm lost in the brambles.