little things

I don’t like you tonight
It may be the stars
Or the ceiling light
that’s too bright
Or my skin that’s too thin
and drawn dry and tight
But your very breath
sticks my hair on end
And my empathy won’t extend
round the bend of the bathroom door
past the socks on the floor
and the bills ignored
and all I cannot mend
as quickly as I defend lost causes
to fill up pauses
that may reveal
more emptiness
than intended

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