I remember

Sky blue walls, with white trim.

Pulling my bed from one corner to another,

At 3 am.

My ceiling angles sharply downward,

My head bumps the wall sometimes.

I painted clouds.

I spread shimmer lotion on the daytime skies.

I packed in as much daytime as I could manage,

kick and bite against the night sky.

She appeared no less frequently, strange.

Creaking out from the sharp angles under my dimmed flickering suns, dueling and humming their angry.

I remember

She beamed widely, waiting with teeth.

Piercing my brain for only counting the clouds,

At 3 am.

More cerulean arches streak demanding,

Might heed bending to wake stargazers.

If pain comes,

It stains sheer light over time deigned skipping.

Itching pox infests and mutilates dirty arms in cruel manner,

Keep all blinding angels to nearer stars.

Something aims ne’er lighted form, shielding.

Crumbles of filth to something all ugly malcontentors deem frightfully sinful, don’t argue here—

They’re angry.